


Attachment Theory

by Ponderosa (ponderosa121)



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Anal Sex, Background Relationships, Canon Character of Color, Case Fic, Daddy Kink, Dancing, Dirty Talk, Face-Fucking, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Finger Sucking, First Time, Light Angst, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Older Man/Younger Man, Oral Fixation, Oral Sex, Pansexual Malcolm Bright, Praise Kink, Rough Oral Sex, Sub Malcolm Bright, Undercover as a Couple
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-08
Updated: 2020-12-04
Packaged: 2021-03-01 04:41:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 30,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23059414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ponderosa121/pseuds/Ponderosa
Summary: On the Upper West Side, someone is murdering the younger half of couples in May-September relationships. Gil and Malcolm go undercover as a couple in a luxury townhouse with a park view to try and lure the killer out. Turns out it’s tougher than Malcolm expected to both find the killer and fake a relationship with a man he’s been in love with for years....[Dec 2020: Fully and extensively revised and split into chapters.]
Relationships: Gil Arroyo/Malcolm Bright
Comments: 44
Kudos: 268





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Endless thank yous to KateSamantha and Toriceratops for beta’ing this, and for providing much needed inspiration along the way. Regarding background relationships there are a lot of past Gil/Jackie mentions and also some present Dani/Malcolm moments.
> 
> As of December 2020 I did a full overhaul and revised this fic start to finish. I also split it into chapters for easier reading.

Standing at the board and running on only a few hours sleep, Malcolm draws in a full, deep breath. Getting through this without acting weird will be a challenge.

“So, we have three victims found in different locations but all who happen to live along Central Park West within these four blocks.” Malcolm gestures at the map labeled with both the scatter of crime scenes and the cluster of residences. “Two women in their early twenties, and now,” he points at the photo of their latest victim, “a man in his mid thirties. They have different sexual orientations, physical features, race, and ages.”

Malcolm moves aside so the detectives can clearly see the neat row of photos. “What connects them besides location and the threatening letters they received? What about these three people is our killer fixated on?”

“Money? Upper West Side townhouses, man.” JT lets out a low whistle.

A sideways glance passes between Dani and her partner. “Eat the rich?”

Malcolm dips his head with a soft smile. Good guess, and a nice dig at his expense, but it’s not the pattern he sees rising to the surface. “Maybe. The second victim, Jennifer, we know that she and her wife are both high-earners with significant incomes, but the other two had very limited assets and were fully dependent on their partners.” His hands spread in an expansive gesture. “Sugar babies, if you will. Why kill them? It’s not consistent.”

“Well, we know the killer is keeping an eye on them somehow.” JT twists in his seat, arm propping on the back of the chair. He drops a nod towards the copies of letters scattered on the table. Written in neat block lettering and scattered with phrases like ‘I saw what you did to her’ or ‘did you think no one would care,’ each couple had received one within a few days of moving in. “All the apartments have a park view, so maybe our perp is literally watching them.”

“Exactly!” With an excited clap of his hands, Malcolm lays out the breadcrumbs to get the others even further down the path. “And if he’s watching them interact in their homes, maybe it’s not about the victims themselves, but about the couples.

“All three of these victims were in a May-September relationship; that’s when one partner is significantly older than the other.” He carefully keeps his gaze from lingering on Gil, who stands as he usually does in the back of the room, coffee in hand, the light slanting through the blinds striping across his dark grey sweater. “It’s not uncommon—consider the number of second marriages among my mother’s acquaintances—even so, it’s generally frowned upon. You’ll all be familiar with the kinds of negative and predatory phrasing that exists around these relationships: cougars, cradle robbers, or on the reverse, gold-diggers.

“A relationship like the ones our victims were in can be perceived to be inequitable whether by income, experience, social status, or a power imbalance,” Malcolm continues, fighting the urge to pace lest it make him look even shiftier. “We have no signs of abuse or controlling behavior in these couples; in fact, by all accounts they were very happy together, but that doesn’t mean our _killer_ sees it that way.”

JT nods thoughtfully, lips pursed as he mulls the theory over. “Letters were pretty aggressive on the idea of cherishing your loved one and treating them right.”

“So this guy, what, thinks by killing the younger half of these couples he’s sending some kind of message to the widowers?” Gil's Yankees mug pauses halfway to his lips.

With the topic at hand, every time Malcolm’s attention slides over to Gil, the heat beneath his collar creeps a little further up his neck. What are the odds the detectives haven’t noticed that his eyes can’t help but catch on the shape of Gil’s mouth when he sips at his coffee? They have to be picking up on something. He steels himself to hold Gil’s gaze as he formulates a reply. 

“Maybe. Attachment theory holds that children treated poorly by a parental figure will, as an adult, seek out the qualities they were missing: protection, financial or emotional stability, mentorship, compassion, caretaking. All are desirable factors a person might prefer in an older romantic partner,” Malcolm explains, his heart rate increasing. Normally it feels like someone shuts him up by now. Maybe Dani and JT _have_ picked up on his vibe with Gil and are gleefully watching him try not to squirm. He swallows, definitely not mentally ticking off boxes for the attributes Gil fulfills on that list as he continues. “I believe our killer had been in a similar relationship that was traumatic in some way. What the profile doesn’t make clear is if they were the May, or the September. If we’re looking at a classic white male in his forties or fifties it could be either.”

“So how do we catch this guy?” Dani asks.

“Well, funny coincidence. As you may know, my mother holds significant investments in real estate and her business manager is presently overseeing a townhouse renovation in one of the San Remo’s towers.”

Gil pushes away from the file cabinet, his shoulders carrying a touch of apprehension. “You want to move in and play bait.”

“Not on my own. I’ll, need appropriate backup.”

Catching on immediately, Gil’s eyes flash and he drops his mug to the table. “Oh no.” A nervous chuckle rattles out of him as he folds his arms over his chest. “Don’t even say it.”

Dani’s cheeks dimple as her teeth scrape over her lip. “Looks like you just got yourself a sugar bottom, Boss. Congratulations.”

“Funny.”

“I could always hire someone to live with me for a week.”

“The hell you will,” Gil fires back. After a moment that stretches on for ages, JT’s gaze swinging between them like a tennis match, a long-suffering sigh escapes Gil’s lips and he throws up his hands. “Okay, I’m in. But for the record, I think this is a terrible idea.”

“That makes two of us,” JT says under his breath, his chair screeching as he pushes away from the table. He gathers up the copies of the threatening letters, rolling them into a loose tube and bopping it against Malcolm’s shoulder as he makes for the exit. “I guess we’ll get started on the paperwork,” he says, brows creeping towards his lineup. A nod to Dani and she follows along, the dimples still in her cheeks as she holds her own amusement in check.

Before Gil can beat his own hasty escape and disappear into the relative safety of his office, Malcolm holds up a hand and offers an apologetic smile. “Sorry, but if we’re moving into the San Remo, you’re going to need some new clothes. I’ll call my mother and ask about her stylist.”

“It’s okay, kid, I’ll call Jessica. If we’re really going through with this, your mom’s going to end up wanting to hear from me regardless, and the promise of a shopping trip might be enough to keep her from tearing us both a new one.”


	2. Chapter 2

The elevator to the twenty-first floor of the historic San Remo moves at a crawl. Malcolm has spent the last few days feeling fairly calm about this whole plan, but once the doors slid shut everything suddenly became real, and now his heart rate rises with their ascent.

There’s a giddy thrill at the idea of playing house with Gil, getting a fantasy peek into what it would be like to come home to someone— _him_ —every day. His last attempt at a relationship serious enough to share living space had been during his second year in the field and it had fallen apart in record time. He’s even looking forward to mealtimes; dinners at the Arroyos with Gil or Jackie or the both of them busy in the kitchen are the rare times in Malcolm’s memory he can recall genuine excitement over eating.

“I still think someone else could’ve done this.”

“No one else fits the profile. Well, I suppose it could’ve been Dani instead of me, but then you’re down a detective.”

“Someone from another squad then.”

“Have someone you trust? There’s still time. A dozen more floors worth.”

In the wavering reflection of the polished brass doors, Gil looks pained.

Smothering his amusement, Malcolm slings his hands casually in the pockets of his slacks and turns his head to glance up at Gil. “You know we’re supposed to be a happy couple.“

“Kid, I’d feel better if I thought pretending to be your husband was actually going to work.” He plucks at the cuffs of his new coat. “Who’s gonna buy us together?” 

”You’d be surprised. Just relax. You really don’t have to act any differently than you usually do.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Affectionate, concerned… occasionally patronizing.”

Gil pulls a face and crosses his arms over his chest. “It just feels strange,” he hisses. 

“For me, too,” Malcolm confesses. Although perhaps for very different reasons. Heart racing, he drums up the nerve to slip a hand under Gil’s arm, fingers curling into the crook of his elbow. A restless flutter stirs to life behind Malcolm’s breastbone when Gil relaxes his pose to allow more room.

The elevator eases to a stop on the twenty-first floor. Malcolm gives Gil’s arm a squeeze. “This is us.”

Tensing up, Gil disengages, but after a split-second hesitation he wraps his arm around Malcolm's shoulders. The clutch of fingers at his shoulder feels wooden and the weight foreign, the gesture carrying none of the easy familiarity it ought to.

Before Malcolm has a chance to second guess this whole plan all over again, the doors slide open to reveal a small, brightly lit vestibule. A single door flanked by torch lamps stands ajar, and below the stately brass knocker, a sticky note signed with a looping cursive L invites them in.

Clearly expecting a larger landing or a hallway with a few doors, Gil’s arm slides away from Malcolm as he exits the elevator car. “How big is this townhouse?”

“About three thousand square feet, I think—three bedrooms, three bath. A lot of tower units on this side have been renovated to take up the full floor.” Malcolm eases past Gil to push open the front door, delighted to find Sunshine‘s cage waiting for them in the modest foyer. She chirps excitedly as Malcolm puts his fingers to the bars and calls out, “Luisa, it’s Malcolm! Thank you for helping get everything ready.”

Gil’s still a bit shell-shocked as Luisa comes around the corner to greet them and hand over the keys. Probably he’s finally doing a bit of mental math at the price tag on a tower townhouse in a pre-war co-op. Malcolm pulls his attention away from Sunshine to get the rundown from Luisa on the state of the kitchen and a reminder that his mother wants him to know that if he needs anything else to just call.

“I have you on speed dial, Luisa,” he assures her, and holds up his phone in a silent vow.

As Malcolm eases out of his coat, Luisa bids them a good stay, then gives him one last reminder about calling before waving goodbye to Sunshine on her way out.

Once Gil’s coat is hung alongside his, Malcolm gestures towards the rest of the townhouse. “Shall we take a tour?”

Directly across from the foyer to the east, the library is a cozy space with floor to ceiling bookcases, a narrow window, and a brass standing telescope set beside it. To the north, a living room and dining room combo with an expansive corner view amasses a good third of the floor plan. Malcolm takes a peek down a short hallway leading from there towards the west half of the house.

“That must be the butler’s pantry and the other elevator entrance. Past that is probably the kitchen, ensuite laundry, and staff quarters if there are any.” There’s still some remodeling to be done in the hall where the reflooring job has been abandoned midway and patches of bare woodwork await replacement. The walls are in similar disarray, waiting to be papered or painted.

Malcolm reverses course and heads to the right of the foyer, towards the southeast corner of the townhouse. Opening a set of double doors reveal a sizable corner bedroom. “Master suite with the promised park views,” he announces, and waves down another longer hallway to make a few educated guesses about what’s where. “Other bedrooms, a bathroom or two, more closets than are probably necessary, and I’m betting that last door in the hall is the family entrance to the kitchen.”

“So which room is mine?”

“Our room,” Malcolm says, turning his back to the windows, “is the master bedroom.”

“This place has two extra beds.”

Resting a hand on Gil’s back, Malcolm carefully steers him away from any sight lines. “Yes, but we don’t know how diligently our killer is watching. The other apartments weren’t in the tower, so they had primarily park views. We have to assume he’s based there or somewhere along Fifth. We’ll want to spend the majority of our time on the east end of the house, and regardless, as a happily married couple not living in the fifties, we’re going to have to share a bed.”

“What about your night terrors?”

“It’s a big bed and I can use tighter headboard restraints on my half. It might even help hasten our killer to make contact if he feels that my being tied up every night is something my spouse inflicts on me. If my night terrors become a problem, we can reconsider. Until then, this is our best option.”

As Gil mulls this over, Malcolm struggles to draw in a full lungful of air. Gil might be uncomfortable sharing a bed with someone under his purview, but he’s not going to have to deal with something much more concerning: the worry that he’ll talk in his sleep.

Normally, Malcolm looks forward to the rare nights when he has good dreams, but they also tend to feature Gil—and sometimes the whole team—rather prominently.

“Look, I know this won’t be easy.” Malcolm gestures between them. After a beat, he presses his palm flat to the front of Gil’s chest to get the both of them more accustomed to touching. “To catch this guy we need to be comfortable around each other. I’m willing to take this as far as necessary.”

One dark eyebrow wings upward and beneath his hand, Malcolm feels the skip in Gil’s pulse. “As far as necessary?”

Malcolm’s mouth thins into a line as his own heart stutters. “Within reason,” he clarifies, more to make Gil feel better than anything, because the truth is, if Gil asked him right now to go down to his knees and suck him off, Malcolm wouldn’t hesitate in the slightest. Well, he’d probably hesitate on account of thinking he might be delusional, but the spirit, as they say, is willing.

It’s possible his face gives away that highly unprofessional thought because Gil shifts, and there’s a slight charge in the air as his gaze pulls from Malcolm’s to turn down the length of the hallway.

Or, Malcolm considers, it could be he’s just imagining things with a heady mix of anxiety and wishful thinking for fuel. That charge in the air might simply be Gil wanting to keep this tour moving towards the areas of the house he really cares about. The corners of Malcolm’s mouth tug towards a smile and he arches a brow. “You want a peek at the kitchen, don’t you?”

“I wouldn’t mind a little look-see.”

He leads the way, turning on lights and opening all the doors to reveal the extra bedrooms, a guest bath, and then finally the family entrance to the kitchen.

It’s sizable. Probably there’d been a staff bedroom here that was knocked out to convert it into an eat-in space. One wall near the hallway that they’d first seen—the one that completes the rough loop of the townhouse layout—awaits a fresh paint job, but everything else is finished and gleaming.

Gil lets out a low whistle as he walks along the counter, his hand trailing over the big gas range like the hood of a car. “I was thinking we’d eat out our first night here, but look at this baby.”

“Luisa may have only stocked snacks and drinks. We might need proper groceries.”

Opening the fridge, Gil lets out a low whistle. “Oh, no. No need. We are well stocked.”

More food than Malcolm goes through in a week line the shelves, while bright pops of color from a range of veggies fill the crispers. A pair of neatly wrapped packages from the butcher sit stacked beside cartons of eggs and milk. 

Gil peels another sticky note off a box of canned sparkling water. “Basics and some fresh chicken for you, Mr. Arroyo! Malcolm always liked your cooking,” he reads aloud. He kisses the sticky note before crumpling it in his fist. “That woman is a saint.”

“It is true. I do like your cooking,” Malcolm admits, as he leans across the banquette table to peer out the window. With the sun down, the darkening sky shifts from orange to purple and the lights of the city gain prominence. It’s an impressive view, although he wouldn’t trade the ability to people-watch from his loft for it.

He turns back to find Gil methodically sifting through the cabinets taking stock of the supplies and cookware. Digging through the pots and pans, Gil already looks more relaxed and at home. It really isn’t a surprise; half of the time Malcolm had spent at the Arroyo residence had been in the kitchen, perched on a bar stool helping Gil and Jackie with some simple task like shucking corn or seeding peppers.

On game days or gatherings that small space was inevitably where everyone ended up—clustering together between plays, loudly chattering, ducking and weaving around limbs trying to cook or eat or pour drinks. It’d been wildly different than any meal in the Whitly household, and even if sometimes it made him anxious, he’d loved every minute of it.

“What time do you want to eat?”

Malcolm shrugs. “Nine? How long does it take to cook something? If I don’t pick up something on the way home, I usually drink my dinner.” At Gil’s questioning look, he quantifies the statement: “A protein shake or a smoothie. I’m not my mother.”

“Let’s shoot for eight,” Gil declares, already pulling food out of the fridge and tossing things onto the counter. He points first to an apron hung neatly on a hook, then to the brightly colored cutting boards waiting beneath a row of knives hung on a sleek magnetic strip. “Start with the onion, medium chop, then dice the garlic—don’t forget to crush it first—and then slice the carrots about a quarter inch thick.”

An electric current races along Malcolm’s skin, his entire body responding immediately to Gil's demanding tone in a private setting. Fifteen years ago he wouldn’t have blinked an eye or thought anything of it, but as an adult having Gil take charge and order him around… 

He swallows thickly and tries to calm down by neatly folding back his cuffs. “Medium chop the onions, dice the garlic, quarter inch carrots,” he repeats, lifting the apron off the hook with tingling fingers. Any thoughts he’s been entertaining about how maybe this wouldn’t be so difficult after all take a nosedive out the window. 

”I can’t believe you’re trusting me with a knife,” he teases, hoping a bit of levity will distract him from psychosexual responses to Gil sounding like a top. “Have you seen how shaky my hands are?”

“Shut up and chop.” Gil strips off his sweater, and Malcolm’s traitorous eyes jump straight to the sliver of belly that flashes before he tugs his shirt down and retrieves the matching apron.

Heart thundering, Malcolm gnaws at the inside of his cheek and does as he’s told. Beside him, Gil grabs spices from the cabinet, reading each label at arm’s length before setting them down in a cluster beside a large mixing bowl he’d found beneath the counter. The papery outer husks of the onion peel away easily, and he drops them into another large bowl Gil produces for discards. 

He soon focuses all of his attention on the task. His tremor doesn’t kick up that often when he’s not stressed, but the knife is very sharp, and he works slowly and carefully.

Eventually, he catches Gil watching him.

“Medium chop,” Gil says, setting down the herbs he’s stripping off their stems. He wipes his fingers off on his apron, and Malcolm offers the knife so Gil can demonstrate.

Instead of taking the knife, Gil nudges the handle back into Malcolm’s grip and lines up behind him. His heart leaps into his throat as Gil’s arms bracket him and he stares disbelieving as a large hand slides over his. Gil’s body is a furnace against his back, rapidly heating the sliver of air left between them.

_Now_ his fingers tremble, and he can’t seem to breathe as Gil leans down, his cheek sliding against Malcolm’s hair.

“You’re cutting them too small. We need them bigger, for texture,” Gil tells him. Carefully, he repositions Malcolm’s knuckles to keep them safe from the blade before guiding the knife over and helping him slice it through the onion. “Like this… Got it, baby?”

The pieces are twice as large, Malcolm recognizes dimly, but he can’t answer. His skin has shrunk down two sizes, his nipples so hard under his shirt the fabric tugs across them as he fights for one shallow breath after another.

“Kid?” Gil's warm fingers tighten over Malcolm’s and he muscles in closer, the heat of his chest searing Malcolm’s spine. His cheekbone digs against Malcolm’s temple. “If we’re going to pretend to be married, this is how it’s supposed to be. You still sure you can do this?”

Malcolm shifts his weight, foot skidding forward in the hopes that it’ll hide the tent in his pants if Gil moves away and looks back at him. God, he’s fucked, he’s so fucked… but there’s a killer out there. “Yes,” he breathes, “I’m sure.”

“Okay, medium chop. Take it slow.” Gil’s hands slip up Malcolm’s arms to rub some warmth into them. He hesitates momentarily before dropping a kiss in Malcolm’s hair and Malcolm dies a little inside as Gil returns to the herbs. He probably thinks he’s being _paternal_ and maybe even compartmentalizing by calling him baby and not _acting out Malcolm’s fucking wet dreams._

“Slow, I got it.”

Somehow Malcolm makes it through all the vegetables without any bloodshed.

When the mirepoix is done and Gil doesn’t have any other tasks lined up for him, he begs off to take a shower, his heart thumping wildly as he goes straight to the master bath. He flips on the taps and sheds his suit, leaving it strewn across the counter before stepping into the spray. Knees weak, he leans against cool tile, a shiver rippling through him as he gives his dick a squeeze. A few short strokes will get him off.

Gil had been so _close_ to him, mouth at his hair and breath warm near his temple. Eyes sliding shut, Malcolm keeps his touch feather-light, groaning as he pictures Gil taking the knife out of his hands and setting it aside… muscling close until the lip of the counter digs into his belly and a warm mouth brushes against the slope of his neck… God, if this were a real relationship. He could’ve had his husband’s hand— _Gil’s hand_ —sliding down the back of his slacks, a finger slipping between his cheeks to find his rim. Or maybe Gil stripping him naked and telling him to lean forward and spread himself open. Malcolm shudders, twisting to face the wall and letting the water run down his back as if it were the tickle of Gil’s beard down his spine, the rivulet of water slipping over his hole like an endless tongue. Getting eaten out like that, he’d be so wet and loose and ready for Gil’s cock.

He drifts fingers over the head of his dick, tracing the crown, water making his touch drag and turn to fire. What if Gil used that tone of voice on him not in service of prepping for dinner, but in the bedroom? Gil’s a natural, he thinks, and as the loose curl of his fingers stutter at the spot that makes his toes curl he realizes that he hasn’t considered the alternative: Maybe Gil’s not a natural at all. Maybe he’s an experienced top.

Malcolm’s whole body jolts, his cock twitching wildly as he turns his face to his shoulder and moans, “Oh fuck, _oh fuck,”_ into his skin and loses it.

He’s left tingling and breathless, his body blazing under the relative coolness of the spray. When he catches his breath, he stands up straight and turns the temperature up to match the flush riding warm on his chest and his face. A moment and he turns it higher still. It’s nearly scalding as he scrubs himself pink, but he steps out feeling reborn anew.

Clean and fresh and glowing, Malcolm hangs a towel around his hips and gathers up his clothes to set them to airing while he inspects the wardrobe. He pokes through the drawers in much the same fashion as Gil had in the kitchen, cataloguing what lives where. The left half of the space has been reserved for Gil, and Malcolm runs his hand over a spread of soft sweaters. 

None are that different than what Gil wears on a daily basis—a spread of similar hues and the same general fit only with designer labels—but there’s something fun about having helped pick each item out specifically for him to wear. Even if it had come with a great deal of not-so-subtle commentary from his mother about his lack of actual relationships during the whole process.

Malcolm slides the drawer shut and checks ‘his’ side. Instead of a selection, Luisa and Adolfo have moved nearly all his own things here and sorted them in roughly the same location. Awkwardly, that includes the leather in addition to the cashmere. He shifts those outfits to the very bottom drawer and covers them with a few pairs of jeans before digging out something comfortable to lounge around in for the rest of the evening.

Rejoining Gil in the kitchen where the warm mix of savories and spices hang in the air, he inhales deeply. “That smells _amazing._ ” He immediately searches for something to steal a nibble of in the half-assembled salad.

With a knowing look, Gil hands him a slice of cucumber. “You’re in a better mood,” he remarks. “Nice shower?”

“Great shower.” Malcolm hops up to sit on a bare patch of counter near the chicken simmering away on the stovetop. “Enjoying the kitchen?”

“Kid, if I could pack it up and take it with me when we were done here….”

There are times Malcolm wishes Gil would allow money to be spent on him, but he respects Gil’s sense of ethics. Cops who get in the habit of accepting gifts from members of his social strata end up tangled in the strings that inevitably come with.

“I’m glad you’re enjoying yourself.” Malcolm snags another slice of cucumber from the bowl and bites it neatly in half. “You know, the kitchen at my loft is always open to you.”

“You want to start hosting dinner parties, Bright?”

He hooks his ankles together and shrugs. “If you’d cook, I wouldn’t mind.” Malcolm leans back a bit as the rhythmic chop of Gil’s knife resumes. “It’s not the worst idea in the world, is it?”

The only answer he gets is Gil thrusting the salad bowl at him, and a gruff, “Go put this on the table.”

Malcolm slides off the edge of the counter, bowl cradled in his arms. “Here or in the dining room?” 

“Right. There’s a dining room… with a park view.” Gil glances toward the half-finished hallway leading to the other end of the house and exhales. “Go set a proper table, kid; let’s get this show going.”

It takes a few trips for silverware and dishes, another to find some matches to light the candles. The table wouldn’t pass muster in his mother’s dining room, but Malcolm judges it good enough before he returns to find Gil has moved the chicken from the pan into a serving dish and is now doing the same for mounds of steaming pilaf.

“Wine?” Malcolm stretches up to grab a pair of glasses from the cabinet. A lick of air hits the low of his back as his shirt pulls up, and he catches Gil’s eyes flicker briefly to his midsection before darting away. He’s extra careful with the glasses as he eases down to his heels, heart freshly thundering behind his ribcage.

It skips a beat when he finds Gil’s gaze hasn’t fully left him, is caught, dark and thoughtful on his profile. His palms grow damp around the delicate crystal before he sets them down on the counter. Not knowing what to say or do or where to look, Malcolm nods towards the wine rack. “Any preference?” he manages.

“Pick something,” Gill tells him before disappearing down the hall with the food.

Choosing a bottle is easier said than done. He pulls out all the whites and orients the labels forward, seeing but not reading them as his mind circles around what Gil’s expression could have meant. Did Gil think he was playing the tease? Was it his own version of weighing what they’d gotten themselves into? A slew of half-baked theories scramble over one another as he blindly picks a sauvignon blanc from New Zealand and deals with the cork.

In the dining room, Gil has settled at the head of the table, napkin already in his lap. Malcolm leaves the bottle on the table beside the candles and slides into the empty seat at his right. As Gil pours them each a bit of wine, he unfolds his napkin and smooths it over his thigh. It hardly feels real, sitting next to him like this.

Gil holds up his glass. “To moving in.” The flicker of the flame dances in the gold of his wedding band.

Malcolm grins and gently tips his glass into Gil’s, fingers curling in his lap to feel the press of his own ring. “To this new chapter of our life together.” 

Rich foods send his stomach into revolt, but the meal Gil’s prepared is perfect. Throughout dinner, Malcolm genuinely looks forward to each mouthful. It doesn’t hurt that Gil loves watching people enjoy the food he’s made, so every bite is a silent acknowledgement of appreciation. Accustomed to his mother’s table where he needs to head off topics before they begin, Malcolm makes scattered attempts at small talk, but conversation only really takes off towards the end of the meal, when Gil’s plate is clean and he leans back with his wine glass in hand. He opines about city politics and funding cuts, things the Mayor is doing right and where in Gil’s opinion, the man has gone off the rails.

Malcolm is finishing off the last of his chicken when Gil goes quiet. Malcolm’s brow wings upward. “Nothing else to say about—” He stops short as Gil abandons the glass on the table, the weight of his gaze heavier than a half bottle of wine should account for. “What? Do I have something on my face?”

He means to brush aside the strange crackle in the air with something flippant, but Gil’s gaze only intensifies. He reaches for Malcolm, a low, “Yeah, you’ve got a little…” speeding Malcolm’s pulse before he catches Malcolm’s chin to turn his face with a light touch. The swipe of his thumb gathers a bit of sauce up from Malcolm’s lip, and Malcolm doesn’t so much freeze as go blank, thoughts scattering like birds as the slam of his pulse roars in his skull.

“I…” he tries to say, but the moment his lips part, Gil’s thumb pushes in and he rolls his tongue out reflexively to welcome it.

His cheeks burn the instant he realizes what he’s done, blazes hotter as Gil holds eye contact. Malcolm doesn’t risk jerking away, and if anything, Gil grows more keenly focused on him. _Married people probably do this,_ Malcolm thinks belatedly, his tongue curling back into his mouth flooded with the sweetness of the sauce and the salt taste of Gil’s skin.

He swallows thickly, napkin caught in a white-knuckled grip as he wonders if he ought to wipe anything else away, but Gil’s thumb lingers. He shivers as warm fingers slip across his cheek, until Gil’s palm cradles his jaw, his touch curling at Malcolm’s nape.

“Funny,” Gil leans in with a murmur, “I think there’s still a little left.”

The moan ripping out of Malcolm when Gil’s lips brush over his is entirely raw, unmistakably genuine. All that wine seems to hit him at once as he tips his head, his mouth going slack to invite the push of Gil’s tongue. It never comes. The kiss remains remarkably chaste for an eternity before Gil withdraws and Malcolm’s left blinking his eyes open.

“My turn to try out that shower,” Gil announces, taking up his wine glass again to down the remainder in a long swallow. He doesn’t seem fazed in the slightest. “Since I cooked, do you mind doing the cleaning?”

“No.” Malcolm clears his throat to answer a little more firmly. “No problem.”

“Thanks, babe.” Gil slaps the table before he leaves Malcolm sitting there alone, stunned and wondering just how far _Gil’s_ prepared to take this.

* * *

He’d been so cavalier about sharing a bed only a few hours ago, but after cleaning up the dishes and the kitchen, Malcolm takes Sunshine and the confused swirl of his emotions into the library. He closes the door so Sunshine can explore, giving her a ballpoint pen to gnaw on and fling around on the floor as he replays the kiss over and over in his head.

Eventually he does a few mindfulness exercises to stop ruminating and pulls out his phone, lost for a time in a few longform articles he’s had bookmarked. Still, his thoughts do keep circling back to Gil, who had never emerged from the master bedroom after his shower.

Is Gil avoiding him?

He’s not exactly avoiding Gil, but the idea of inserting himself into Gil’s personal space is, for the first time, not appealing. They’ve sailed into entirely new territory and he has nothing to guide him, no real sense of how far he can or should take things when _his_ ideal is certainly going to be at odds with Gil’s.

Another article and Malcolm realizes it’ll probably look bad to ignore his ‘husband’ any longer. With a sigh, he gets up, scooping Sunshine into his palm to return her to her cage before trudging down the hall with his heart in his throat.

He finds Gil’s taken the side nearest the door, maybe knowing that Malcolm would feel a bit safer that way. He lounges atop the covers with his back propped against the pillows, a magazine folded back in one hand and his phone in the other. He doesn’t look like he’s been agonizing over anything for the past two hours as he thumbs the phone off and sets it aside.

“You don’t have to stop doing whatever you’re doing.”

“Just checking the scores on the game.” Gil’s attention follows him briefly before turning back to his magazine.

Malcolm points towards the bathroom door. “I’m just going to, uh, brush my teeth and then come to bed,” he says, disappearing into the bathroom and silently freaking out during every step of his nightly routine. He’s already half hard and there’s no way he’s not going to be aching by the time he’s sliding into the sheets next to Gil.

Spitting into the sink and rinsing his mouth out, the only real question is whether or not he’s going to jerk off again to stave off any awkwardness. He stares at his reflection as if it has any chance of offering him sage advice.

Jerking off would solve the problem. He’d go in there and not need to worry about laying beside Gil with a massive hardon under his pajama bottoms. On the flipside, a little voice in the back of his mind whispers that there’s something overwhelmingly erotic about the idea. How much better would it be to let himself enjoy the thrill of sharing a bed with the man he’s been in love with since he was an awkward teenager. Against his better judgment, the voice wins out, and he carefully adjusts himself, using the waistband of his shorts to keep his cock tucked tight against his belly.

By the time he exits the bathroom, Gil has risen and abandoned the magazine on the bed stand with his phone. He’s tossed the shams and the bolster onto the floor, and leans across the bed to flip the covers back on Malcolm’s side. Malcolm politely tries not to gawk at the way the seat of Gil’s pants draws snug across his ass and instead rescues the pillows to put them in the basket near the chaise.

He has to try harder yet when Gil tugs his sweater off over his head and immediately follows it up by stripping out of his shirt.

“Don’t tell me you sleep in the nude,” Malcolm says, aiming for nonchalance as he tests the restraints fixed on his half of the headboard. He gives each one a tug, paying extra close attention to adjusting them to keep his gaze from straying back to Gil.

“Well, I am making some sacrifices here,” Gil says, undoing his belt and stepping out of his slacks. He keeps his shorts on as he drapes his clothes over the chair in the corner.

The cadence of Malcolm’s breath definitely changes seeing Gil stroll around in nothing but a pair of boxers. He bites the inside of his cheek as he adjusts the length of the leather strap so if he ends up thrashing around in the middle of the night, he’ll be less likely to smack Gil in the face.

His mouth remains completely dry no matter how many times he swallows.

“Some sacrifices, hm?” he manages.

“A few.”

Silently thinking _‘here goes nothing,’_ Malcolm slips into bed, the sheets cool and crisp and welcoming against his too-warm skin. The metal of the buckles jingle as he twists to gather his restraints, but before he can put them on, Gil reaches out and takes the cuffs out of his hands.

“Don’t put them on yet,” Gil says, easing back into bed and sliding closer.

Malcolm stares, once again a deer in headlights. In the back of his head he knows his poleaxed look must be completely unnatural and that he’s supposed to play along, but it’s just like at dinner—his frozen limbs refuse to cooperate, body unsure how to respond besides raising his heart rate when his brain is at war with itself.

What he _wants_ to do: Roll towards Gil, slide a leg over his hips to straddle his thighs and lick into his mouth while begging for Gil to fuck him.

That’s definitely not what he’s _supposed_ to do. And not, he thinks, what Gil intends in the slightest as he says, “Come here for a minute,” his arm slipping around Malcolm’s shoulders to draw him near. 

At least one of them isn’t having any executive functioning problems.

_Roll, straddle, beg,_ plays on a loop in Malcolm’s mind. When Gil— _Gil!_ —mouths a kiss at his temple and strokes a hand along one shivering arm, Malcolm startles into motion. “I uh…” Malcolm angles his body to fall into the appearance of intimacy while ensuring that if Gil scoots any closer he’s not going to feel Malcolm’s hard cock nudge against him.

He drops a kiss to the curve of Malcolm’s shoulder. “First night in a new place? Most couples would christen it,” he murmurs, the words bleeding warmth into soft jersey cotton. “I’m going to touch your chest a bit, okay? Then we’ll turn off the lights and draw the drapes.”

Not trusting his voice, Malcolm nods. Gil is going to touch him. Fuck. _Oh fuck._

Gil’s thumb rubs little circles over his bicep. The muscles in Gil’s jaw jump, a bit of concern writing lines between his brows; he must think Malcolm’s panicking. Which in a way is true, just… not quite for the reasons Gil’s likely thinking.

“It’s okay if you touch me,” Malcolm manages, the strain in his voice needy and desperate in his own ears. He tries again, aiming for the same easy confidence Gil’s displaying. “You’re my husband right? So, of course you can touch me.” _Please, touch me._

“With any luck, this case’ll be over tomorrow. You’re gonna crack this, Bright.” Gil smiles fondly, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “You always do.”

He means well, trying to remind Malcolm that this is all in service of catching a killer, but it steals the last of Malcolm’s breath. This is everything he’s ever wanted and yet so far from it. The knot in his chest tightens, tangling with the desperate longing of a life-long crush that Gil can’t possibly want to reciprocate.

Malcolm’s entire body trembles as Gil’s hand moves from his elbow to slip across his ribs. He chokes on a moan that he can’t stifle, his chest arching into a touch he’s craved for as long as he can remember. Gil’s wide palm rubs warm over his sternum, the ache there easing as a hazy fog settles to cloak the moment in the same surreality of a very good dream.

How can this be happening? Really? Gil’s hand on him like this. The edge of a finger brushes the tightness of his nipple and he jerks, the sharp zing sending him curling instinctively towards Gil. He very nearly keeps on going— _roll, straddle, beg_ —ready to slither down and rub his lips along the waist of Gil’s boxers. No longer struggling for a bit of spit, now he’s swallowing every few seconds, mouth flooding wet as he pictures Gil pulling out his cock to feed it to him.

But Gil’s hand isn’t sneaking down his belly to offer Malcolm a mouthful, it’s back on his elbow, stabilizing him in place. He inches down to catch Malcolm’s gaze, and says his name a few times until the flush in Malcolm’s cheeks isn’t a sexual thrill, but the hot sting of pure embarrassment.

“I’m okay,” Malcolm promises.

“Lemme get the lights, baby.” Gil’s tongue flashes to wet his lip before he scrapes it clean with his teeth.

“You don’t have to,” Malcolm struggles to explain as Gil shifts to get up. “It’s wired up to the smart home system. It’s on voice command.” He clears his throat to demonstrate, and Gil sinks back into the pillows as the lights dim and the quiet purr of the motors kick on to lower the shades and leave them in darkness.

“Damn, kid,” he says, the sheets rustling as he makes himself comfortable. “I could get used to this.”

Silently— _reluctantly_ —Malcolm scoots back towards his side and resumes buckling himself into his cuffs. Finished, he lays there, hands clasped at his chest over the wild beating of his heart and replaying everything that just happened over and over in the theater of his mind. Maybe not jerking off again quickly in the bathroom was a bad idea, but at the same time the wild excitement of Gil touching him lingers on his skin.

It’s not like he sleeps much in the first place, but as Gil’s breath slips into a deep rhythmic cadence Malcolm’s not sure how he’ll manage any rest during this case. His cock remains distractingly hard, and the length of the restraints prevent him from reaching down to give it a squeeze. 

He bites his lip and twists his wrists to feel the pull of leather, letting his imagination circle back to the idea of Gil being a top—and the sort who likes to keep their sub waiting and wanting.


	3. Chapter 3

After that not very restful first night, he and Gil fall into a routine almost immediately. The banquette in the kitchen becomes an impromptu office where during the day, Malcolm reviews the case files after Gil leaves for work.

Once he’s sat with the details of the case for a bit, he does his morning workout, takes a shower, and moves into the library to scout sight lines and fend off the sort of boredom that comes with not being out with the detectives actively investigating. Then it’s: go outside for a bit, scrounge up a meal somewhere, return and check the mail for any contact from their killer, do a bit more research while waiting for Gil to get home and cook dinner, take another shower just to jerk off before Gil orders him around the kitchen, eat, screw around on his phone for a bit, get into bed and try not to think about the fact that all he wants to do is get fucked senseless by his boss-slash-mentor…. Rinse and repeat.

On day four of this, Malcolm does some rearranging, moving Sunshine’s cage from the foyer into the library with him for company and enrichment. He sets her up next to the window and talks to her as he swings the telescope around, taking notes on changes occurring at the apartment buildings across the park. She seems to like the view.

He uses her as a sounding board to go over the primary factors in his profile, explaining how none of the victims had children and the two who were sugar babies spent their days in leisure. The third worked from home with a schedule not too dissimilar to his own, and so far neither JT or Dani had dug up any big red flags in their interviews. “Sunshine, I’ve cross-checked just about everything that can be cross-checked.”

She chatters back as she scoots to the edge of her perch to nibble at the rope of her swing.

“If I could find some inconsistencies in accounts of the victim’s personal lives, maybe we’d have a more complete profile, but everything adds up to a great big nothing.”

She ignores him.

He sighs and puts down his notepad. “Good talk.”

Today for a bit of air he takes a leisurely walk through the park, pausing for a while to sit on a bench and watch passersby as he considers potential sight lines. Tourists, joggers, various dog walkers and people on their lunch hours pass him by. To get a view into the buildings from here, someone would need a pair of binoculars, or, as he catches sight of a photographer snapping away, a camera with significant zoom. Unfortunately, neither of those things would stand out.

Eventually his stomach reminds him that food is next on the list, and he stops to grab a simple sandwich before swinging back to the San Remo. The mail once again arrives without a threatening letter, and as Malcolm rides the elevator up, the day feels more urgent than the one before. What if his profile is completely wrong? What if he’s wasting time playing house when he ought to be out there with the detectives interviewing the victim’s friends and family?

If Gil notices the restlessness clawing at Malcolm when gets home, he keeps it to himself, but in the middle of the night, when Malcolm thrashes awake, Gil doesn’t simply stir and ask if he’s okay before rolling over to fall asleep again the moment Malcolm says yes. This time, he scoots closer and fumbles to find Malcolm’s restraints and unclip them, immediately scooping an arm around Malcolm and pulling him tight.

“I got you kid.” Gil nestles against his back, a sleep-rough, “Don’t worry,” pulling Malcolm out of the last wisps of a chilling dream to drag his thoughts directly into the gutter. Gil’s hand sweeps down his side, squeezes at his hip before sliding around him to hold him close. “I got you….”

Gil slips back into dreaming in a matter of minutes, the arm banded around Malcolm softening slightly as he does. Shockingly, despite the press of Gil’s body against his own and the vague worry of being unrestrained, it doesn’t take hours for Malcolm to drift off again, too.

* * *

The soft glow of morning leaks around the edges of the shades when Malcolm wakes, this time without incident, except that at some point he’d plastered himself halfway across Gil’s chest and tangled his leg between Gil’s. Carefully, with his heart thudding, he eases away before Gil wakes up to feel morning wood digging into his thigh.

As Malcolm slips out of bed, Gil stirs. “Kid? What time is it?”

Malcolm’s gaze flicks to the clock. “Just a few minutes before your alarm goes off.”

With a grunt, Gil reaches for his phone and squints at the screen as he turns it off. “Wake me up if I fall back asleep. Okay, baby?”

Will he ever get used to Gil calling him ‘baby’? He gnaws on the inside of his cheek and fights a smile. “Of course.” 

He’s still enjoying the glow of it when he’s minty-fresh and barefoot in the kitchen, leaning against the counter nibbling on toast and jam. At the table, Gil plows through a plate of eggs and ketchup fried rice mixed with leftovers—something that, for as much as he loves Gil’s cooking, Malcolm refuses to even consider eating. Keeping toast down in the morning is a struggle. He can hardly look at Gil’s plate. Eggs that runny on top of all that greasy rice? He shudders.

“Do you think my profile is wrong?”

“I dunno, could be,” Gil says between bites, “but we haven’t dug up any other decent leads, so we can give it a couple more days, don’t you think?”

“I suppose.”

Gil makes quick work of his breakfast, scrubbing his mouth vigorously with a napkin when he’s done. “What are you up to today?” He gathers up his plate and mug as he rises. “Pilates for a change?”

Peeling the crust off his toast, Malcolm throws Gil a look. “Pilates is harder than you think. But maybe a run in the park again.”

“Are you walking me to the car?”

They’ve been doing that each morning, too: Malcolm escorting Gil to a waiting car for a very public goodbye. Besides trying to fall asleep beside Gil half-naked and looking like he’s just stepped out of a wet dream, stretching up on his toes to brush a kiss against Gil’s cheek is the highlight of Malcolm’s day.

“Of course. Wouldn’t let you go off to work without a kiss for good luck now would I?”

Gil’s plate slides into the sink with a clatter, but he doesn’t flip the tap on to give it a rinse. His gaze lingers on Malcolm, heavy with thought. He’s still clearly turning something over in his head as he angles to bracket his arms around Malcolm and trap him against the counter.

Grown more accustomed to the way Gil plays ‘husband,’ Malcolm only finds the nearness unusual here in the kitchen where there’s no real need to keep up the act. As his pulse kicks up, he finds himself very glad he jerked it in the bathroom first thing.

“You know, the way things are going,” Gil gives Malcolm an evaluating look, “we could use a little extra good luck on this case. And you, um…”

Malcolm’s head spins as Gil draws in a deep breath and releases it slowly, his shoulders relaxing as the space between them quickly heats. Extra good luck? Does he mean a peck on the cheek? Now? Gil leans in, and for a breathless, anticipatory moment, Malcolm thinks Gil might kiss _him_ again.

But then Gil’s mouth skates along the rise of Malcolm’s cheek and he whispers, “You’re not going to finish that are you?” as he snags the last slice of toast off the plate.

Malcolm’s eyes go wide as Gil retreats, chortling. Sputtering a curse, Malcolm steals the toast back and bites off the corner for show. “I might!” he insists, but then Gil looks down at him with something unreadable in his eyes and the mouthful turns into a lump on his tongue. He stubbornly chokes it down.

“You know you’re not that great of a liar, kid.” Gil plucks the toast from Malcolm’s unresisting fingers. “You never have been.” He devours it in a few bites and licks a bit of jam off his thumb. Malcolm’s skin goes tight and tingling even before Gil snaps his fingers and says, “Now hustle. Put on your coat and shoes and walk me out.”

Easing away from the counter, Malcolm attempts to hide the thrill riding his veins at Gil ordering him around and a rising unease at Gil mocking his poker face. It’s never been particularly easy to put one over on Gil, but he doesn’t think he’s _terrible_ at it. Is he? Fresh doubts scrabbling over one another like rats, he pops into the bedroom to quickly change and lace up his running shoes.

A run through the park might have a better chance to clear his head than struggling to sink into his yoga practice when his nerves are keyed up like this. If he’s going to sit down with the case files today and try and find a different angle of approach, he’ll need the focus. He grabs a lighter jacket and a pair of gloves before joining Gil in the vestibule, operating now on autopilot up to and beyond the moment his mouth brushes against Gil’s cheek and he sees him off.

The car pulls away and Malcolm sets off down the block at a slow jog, picking up pace once crossing into the park. He makes a long, winding loop, able eventually to think beyond speculating over Gil’s ability to read his mind and any underlying motives in the way Gil had crowded his personal space in the kitchen.

With about a quarter mile left to go, feeling lighter and looking forward to diving back into the case again, he dodges another pair of runners coming down the path. Slowing into a lazy jog, he skirts around a knot of tourists and brushes a woman’s backpack. He spins to apologize for startling her, but no good deed goes unpunished: As he turns around again, he ends up tangled in a swarm of dogs.

“My head’s been all over the place this morning,” he says, extracting himself from the half-dozen leashes. He carefully avoids stepping on the paws of an overexcited beagle and a skittish doberman that crowd his legs. “I’m so sorry!”

The dog walker gives him a nasty look while reining in the chaos. “You should be.”

He can’t argue with that. Malcolm spreads his hands in another gesture of apology before dashing off and finishing his run.

“Mail in yet?” he asks the doorman.

“Five minutes ago, Mr. Bright.”

“Fantastic,” he says, and goes to pick up the bundle of mail. 

There’s nothing from the killer in the mix, and in the elevator, Malcolm sighs and leans against the wall. Is his profile actually wrong or is there something about his dynamic with Gil that the killer isn’t reacting to? He runs through possible scenarios in his head. They’ve been acting casually affectionate and ending every evening with a bit of what Gil calls ‘signalling for some sugar.’ Air quotes hanging in his head, not even the reminder of what it’s like to have Gil roll towards him to nuzzle at his neck distracts him from having no new leads.

He’s still gnawing on his frustration when Gil gets home about an hour later than usual. It’s only been a few days, but Malcolm’s already gotten accustomed to eating on a schedule. He pops up from his chair in the library, “What’s for dinner?” tumbling excitedly from him as he greets Gil in the foyer. Besides the vague rumbling of his stomach, he could use a proper distraction from the circling of his thoughts.

Gil looks him over, measuring the restlessness in Malcolm’s posture. Taking Malcolm’s coat off the hook, he reopens the front door. “C’mon, kid, let’s find out.”

“Shopping?” Malcolm raises a brow.

Gil holds the coat towards him. “Dinner out for a change.”

A tinge of disappointment dampens his excitement as he curls his fingers into the wool. He enjoys being Gil’s sous chef more than he ought to. Eating out means there’s no opportunity for Gil to casually order him around or curl a hand at the nape of his neck when he manages a proper dice. Slipping into his coat, Malcolm raises his voice to order the lights off everywhere other than a dim glow in the foyer to welcome them home.

The elevator is still on the floor and as the doors slide open, Gil throws an arm across Malcolm’s shoulder to steer him inside. “Don’t pout, city boy.” He spins them around and gives Malcolm a firm squeeze. Their reflections waver in the shiny brass of the doors. “We’ll grab a bite around the corner. It’s time to have a little fun and let loose. Daddy had a long day, and unwinding with some live music, maybe a bit of dancing…”

At the word ‘daddy’ coming out of Gil’s mouth, Malcolm chokes on his own tongue. Gil doesn’t seem to notice.

His arm stays around Malcolm as they head out onto the street and around the corner. Malcolm can hardly enjoy it, too busy dissecting Gil’s mood. This is likely just a change in tactics, getting them outside where if they’ve caught the killer’s eye, they could be more easily observed.

The place they end up in has live music and small plates on the menu. Gil takes the liberty of ordering a full spread without asking Malcolm’s input. Calculated to look controlling, or simply because he knows both that Malcolm doesn’t care and what in the list he can stomach? Malcolm picks his way through half the dishes, enjoys watching Gil savoring the rest, and never comes close to figuring it out. Gil’s harder to read than almost anyone else, in large part because Malcolm can never be sure how much of his own subconscious colors his perception.

“Sure you don’t want the last one?” Gil picks up the final remaining wedge of grilled polenta with his fingers.

Malcolm’s tempted. He definitely could eat a bit more, and the polenta is the one thing on the menu he’d gone for more than a couple bites of.

Gil gives the wedge an enticing waggle. “Last chance, baby.”

_Baby._ Malcolm’s heart does a now-familiar delighted flip. “Are you going to feed it to me?” he asks, playing along.

Gil’s immediate, “Do you want me to?” redirects the thrill significantly lower.

With it comes an awful whisper of hope. Malcolm swallows around the lump forming in his throat, wishing he could be certain that Gil’s in character. It’s silly to think otherwise, but when Malcolm takes too long to formulate an answer, Gil drops the wedge on Malcolm’s plate and licks the olive oil from his fingers.

“All yours, kid.”

Malcolm nibbles at the polenta, not tasting a thing. He tears his gaze away from the oil still glistening on Gil’s lip. “The band is good,” he says, cringing inwardly at the lack of segue.

“Yeah, they’re not bad. I’ve always been a fan of blues.” The shine on Gil’s lip disappears with the pass of his napkin and he nods along to the beat as he sips at his Jack and Coke. “You have a good day? Do anything fun besides stare at files all day?”

“Same old, same old. Had a nice run in the park in the morning, although I nearly collided with a pack of dogs.” Malcolm’s brow knits together. It’s honestly tough to remember what he’d done since he’s still busy analyzing every single interaction he’s had with Gil today. From waking up half atop him to that moment in the kitchen to the elevator ride down followed by walking here tucked tightly against his side. “How about you? How was your day, Daddy?”

It’s only when Gil pauses mid-sip that Malcolm realizes what he’s said.

“I uh—”

“No, don’t say a thing. I started it.” Gil exhales through his nose and swirls the ice in his glass. “Let’s maybe not do that, yeah? Not in public anyway.”

The relief doesn’t lessen Malcolm’s chagrin in the least. Gil seems nonplussed, sharing an obfuscated version of his own day and all the bullshit he’d had to deal with. Malcolm goes through a couple more cocktails as Gil does most of the talking, partially just to keep his mouth too busy to say something else stupid. In retrospect, he thinks as his brain becomes very pleasantly fuzzy, more alcohol was perhaps not the smartest idea. The bartender here definitely isn’t watering down her drinks.

He’s not the only one buzzed. Gil’s voice has gotten progressively louder and his gestures more animated. His hand falls on Malcolm’s more than once as he emphasizes one point or another, and he’s since taken off his sweater and pushed up the sleeves of the thin Henley clinging to his chest. It’s distracting. Very.

Trying to focus on something other than how fucking sexy Gil looks sitting across from him, Malcolm’s gaze skips aimlessly around the room. Even on his way to full-on drunk, he catches himself profiling the other patrons—no threats, no one to be concerned about, just people with messy lives wearing their traumas on their sleeves. He drums his fingers against the tabletop, randomly at first and then eventually matching the beat of the music. A smattering of people are out dancing in front of the small stage, and the words, “Do you want to dance?” fall unbidden out of his mouth.

He trips over his tongue trying to find a way to take the question back, but Gil’s hand smacks enthusiastically to the table and cuts him short. “Hell yes, I do.” Gil gets to his feet and knocks back the last of his drink. “But you’re going to have to follow.”

Stunned and elated in equal measure, Malcolm slides off his stool. Is this even real life? “Following is not a problem,” he assures, staring at the clasp of Gil’s hand around his wrist towing him to the small dance floor. Growing up with a heavy slate of extracurriculars and a bit of natural talent means he’s no stranger to helping dance instructors demonstrate.

If he’d already been feeling pleasantly fuzzy and floating, Gil pulling him into a tight embrace launches him directly into the stratosphere. He matches rhythm with Gil instantly, bending into the touch low on his back as they travel around the floor. Slow blues is all about a little give and take and Malcolm’s bites his lip to stifle a wide grin as he recognizes that Gil isn’t simply a good dancer, he could win awards.

After a few exhilarating rounds around the floor, Malcolm stops fighting the grin. “Do you swing?” he asks, hips twisting to match the pivot in Gil’s.

“Not for a few years before Jackie passed,” Gil replies glibly, hand sliding towards Malcolm’s hip to give him a little nudge and send him spinning. He wears his own grin as he draws Malcolm back in and grinds their hips together in a suggestive move that catches a few glances from the sidelines. “Haven’t danced much since then either.”

Malcolm’s eyes widen and his steps fumble.

Gil’s grin crumbles as he catches Malcolm, slowing them down into a simple swaying. Gathered close, Malcolm shivers when Gil leans down to put a mouth near his ear. A sigh stirs his hair. “I know you loved her too, kid,” he murmurs. “I shouldn’t be making light. I don’t usually drink this much.”

“You don’t need to apologize,” Malcolm says, still stunned.

He might’ve had a hard time reading Gil all night, but Malcolm is positive he hadn’t been joking about swinging; nothing about his expression betrayed a falsehood.

It’s a lot to process, and at the same time it’s a new little puzzle piece to fit into and expand the image he has of Gil—of his past and of his present. Pushing past his natural hesitation, Malcolm slides his arms up to loop them around Gil’s neck. He beams a smile upwards. It’s only been how many months since he’s been back and the first time Jackie had come up seemed to physically pain Gil. For him to not be so mired in grief is a good thing. “No, really. I know it hasn’t been easy on you. My therapist would say that’s progress.”

Drowning in Gil’s dark gaze, when the grip low on Malcolm’s hips tightens, he responds reflexively into the touch, his whole body aching to press forward.

“These past few days…” Gil’s words fade into an exhale and he puts a bit of distance between them. His hands lift away, but only for a moment, returning to frame Maclolm’s face, warm and strong. There’s something else Gil wants to say trapped in the twist of his mouth.

Malcolm’s at that level of tipsy where he knows two things: one, if he tries to coax it out, he probably won’t do a very good job, and two, he’s liable to reveal a little too much of himself in the process. Still swaying in time with Gil, he aims for a neutral comment instead. “I like dancing with someone experienced. It’s so exciting when my partner knows what they’re doing.” As he hears himself say it, the innuendo comes out underlined in red. So much for neutral. “We should do it again, sometime, maybe,” he finishes lamely.

Gil scans the room, as if remembering they’re on a case. Gently, he lifts one of Malcolm’s hands away from his neck, whiskers soft and tickling as he presses a kiss to the thin skin of Malcolm’s wrist. “Yeah, kid.” He smiles gently and clasps their hands together, his other settling firm at the low of Malcolm’s back again. “But we aren’t done yet.” He moves Malcolm to the rhythm, starting with slow slides and a few simple spins to help them get back into the groove.

The words unspoken fall forgotten behind them as they edge towards finding their own style. They stay on the dancefloor for what feels like hours, each turn successively more fun and putting them more in sync. Malcolm could do this all night long.

He’s giddy and flushed when Gil finally calls it quits, complaining about being an old man who needs to be up early for work as they settle the bill.

Buoyant and bouncing with every step, Malcolm hangs on Gil’s arm as they make their way back home. “You could stay home tomorrow,” he suggests. The buzz of the alcohol has faded, but a more potent and equally intoxicating energy crackles through him, the rhythm of the last song still humming in his skull. “We can lay around in bed all day…”

“Yeah, I don’t think that’s a good idea, kid.”

Malcolm doesn’t give up so easily. In the elevator, he twists to press the whole of his body against Gil’s side. He licks his lips and fingers the lapel of Gil’s coat. “Why not? Have you ever taken a sick day in your life?”

Gil lifts Malcolm’s hand off the coat and gives his fingers a squeeze. “Kid, you haven’t thought this through. We’re supposed to be married, not having a slumber party. A day in bed with the curtains up, what do you think our suspect is going to expect? Probably a little more than cuddling.”

“You’re right,” Malcolm concedes, but he wants it. He’s never wanted it more, and maybe this is a chance to get just a little more of a taste. “It wouldn’t be terrible though, would it? I’m a good dancer but even though you haven’t slipped me the tongue, I can assure you I’m a fantastic kisser. I’m even better at—”

Gil cuts him off with a weary, “No more jokes tonight, kid.”

The rest of Malcolm’s vague plan to get Gil to agree to a blow job dies between a shaky smile and reluctant agreement. Maybe the reminders of Jackie that came up tonight reopened a few wounds, he considers, or he’s pushed his luck a little too far. Gnawing on his lip, Malcolm shrinks back. In response, Gil wraps an around him and gives him a reassuring squeeze that feels more remote and overtly paternal than it has in days.


	4. Chapter 4

The distance that crept back between them at the end of the night lingers through breakfast. Malcolm struggles against it like a tide. Every word they share across the table now feels stilted. False. Already he misses Gil crowding into his space to chide him for his eating habits and his comparatively leisure-filled plans for the day.

More busy chewing on his thoughts than anything else, the toast he tucks away disappears in slow, flavorless bites. He’s never craved intimacy this much before. Then again, he’d rarely gotten a taste of it, either, and last night on the dance floor was special in a way that seems out of a fairy tale or a Hallmark movie. A life that a man like him is never going to have.

Gil’s saying something, but he misses it. Feigning attention with a vague mumble, Malcolm clears the table, the attempt at breakfast settling in his gut with the same heaviness as his thoughts as the morning grinds on. He catches Gil’s frown before they split, taking the opposite hallways to the other end of the house. Before reconvening in the foyer, Malcolm grabs his running shoes again. More fresh air should do him some good.

“Another jog around the park?”

Malcolm nods. “I’m thinking I might wander over to the Met and spend some time alone with my thoughts first, though.”

“You feeling all right? _You_ don’t need a sick day, do you?”

Malcolm chuckles as they wait for the elevator to take them down to perform their routine goodbye. “Ate a little too quickly, but mostly I’m stuck wondering what I might be missing on this profile,” he lies, swallowing down the growing worry that this whole assignment is fundamentally changing their relationship, and not for the better.

“We’ve got a few more days before I need to show some progress.”

“Before you need to give up that kitchen, you mean.” Malcolm glances up with a wry twist to his mouth.

“Don’t remind me.” Gil lets out a long wistful sigh that’s usually reserved for very old and impractical cars. “That and all the voice-activated gadgets? What are the odds you’ll let me keep the house in the divorce?”

The queasy hollowness in Malcolm’s stomach fades slightly and a genuine grin breaks through his mood. “Well, we didn’t have a prenup, so if you get yourself a good lawyer….”

Gil’s laughter rings in the elevator car and the distance between them shrinks as the sound fades. Somewhere around the tenth floor, he catches Malcolm’s hand, grip firm as he threads their fingers together. Gil keeps hold all the way to the street, and the dig of his wedding band is as impossible for Malcolm to ignore as the callused thumb stroking rhythmically over his.

At the curb, Gil still doesn’t let go, although he turns to face Malcolm. Another swipe of his thumb sends a shockwave of delight up Malcolm’s arm. “Enjoy your time at the museum,” he says, and pulls Malcolm’s hand up to press a kiss to his knuckles. “Just because I’ll be at work, doesn’t mean you can’t have fun.”

Trying not to let his surprise show, Malcolm makes some sort of promise to the effect. But, a kiss to the knuckles? That’s different. Is it for anyone watching, or, since Gil doesn’t turn his head slightly to invite the usual kiss to the cheek, is it to maintain the buffer between them?

The tangle of their fingers knotted with unanswered questions, Malcolm nearly misses the faint tug at the corners of Gil’s mouth. His heart sinks to find a somber smile and a furrow in Gil’s brow that matches his own.

He disengages the hold and immediately stuffs his hand in his pocket to stall the oncoming tremor. “Have a good day at the office.”

But Gil doesn’t turn towards the waiting car, he steps in close and puts a finger to Malcolm’s chin. “Hey, kid,” Gil prompts, and with some effort and a wildly pounding heart, Malcolm lifts his gaze. Melancholy gone, there’s only a familiar soft fondness waiting for him. “I’ll see you after work, okay?” Gil’s eyes flick up to the building towering above them. “We’ll eat in, I promise.”

“I’d like that.”

“Good. Enjoy your run and work up an appetite ‘cause Daddy will cook you something special. Anything you want, city boy.”

Malcolm’s reeling even before Gil leans down and kisses him. Full on. Lips nudging until he opens to it with a quiet, involuntary sound. A soft wet swipe of tongue licks against his, draws pure electricity up his spine. He can hardly breathe as he hangs weightless, held up only by the light cradle of Gil’s fingertips at his jaw.

“Text me when you figure out what you want to eat, all right?”

He can’t nod. Can’t speak. Can’t do anything but stare stupefied as Gil disappears into the waiting town car.

What the hell just happened?

Malcolm shakes the pins and needles from his fingers and takes off down the block in a jog just to do _something_ with the sudden wild jittering of his nerves.

Sure, he’d said as much last night that he was prepared to take this further, had teased about being a great kisser. Which he just proved false considering he’d gone slack-jawed and hadn’t even tried to kiss back. Christ, he could’ve kissed back!

The bigger problem: there’s no way Gil could have read his reaction as anything other than genuine.

Already Gil straight up said he didn’t think Malcolm was a very good liar, and if the way he used to see through Malcolm’s hasty excuses in his teens still holds true… Even if he hasn’t entirely been doing a great job of hiding it, after last night Gil probably—most definitely— _knows_ Malcolm has a terribly embarrassing crush on him. Extrapolating one step further, he’s decided to go all in on the teasing—not out of the question—or he’s what?

Malcolm keeps losing the thread before he can follow it to any sort of conclusion.

Gil had kissed him. Kissed him!

He pushes his hair back, his sudden giddy laugh steaming into the air startling a small dog on a neon leash.

And what about bringing back the Daddy stuff after he’d put a lid on it? Is that just more teasing? Does he think it’s the sort of ridiculous hypersexual extreme for a May-September relationship and likely to trigger their killer? Could he see how much it affected Malcolm to hear him say it?

Fuck. Even just _thinking_ about Gil referring to himself as Daddy again… Malcolm’s pulse leaps and his mouth goes dry. He’d said not in public after Malcolm had slipped up, so it has to be that Gil feels the need to double down on the dynamic to get their killer to show his hand. Right?

Malcolm finds himself in a flat out run, the pavement blurring under his feet until he’s flying. As he picks up speed, his mind slows, calms down enough to be okay with not having all the answers—for the time being, anyway—and he finishes a long loop without colliding with any tourists, strollers, or labradoodles.

* * *

Returning home, he takes Sunshine out for a tour on his shoulder. In the kitchen, he flips through his notes, waiting to cool down enough that taking a hot shower won’t just mean more sweating. Sunshine travels up and down his sleeve, excited at the attention. He gives her a little scritch at her breast. Poor girl has been cooped up more than usual; at the loft, he can let her flit about from surface to surface without worrying about her ripping up some important papers or rare books. All those important papers and rare books arguably belong to him. The view here is a little more stimulating, at least.

He lets her play in the sink with the tap going while he showers, and after he’s dried and dressed, slips her back into her cage.

“Think I should still go to the Met?” he asks her, peering through the telescope and swinging it up to scan the windows of the tallest buildings across the way. At this time of day, inside the various townhouses that don’t have their shades drawn, it’s mostly staff moving about. He’s been compiling a list of all the windows that have their own telescopes propped in front of them—numbering quite a few—but after running down the corresponding addresses, all of the owners and household staff have checked out so far. He gives it another ten minutes before rising with a sigh. Maybe he’s going about this all wrong. Could it be something about the apartments the victims had lived in and not the couples at all?

He glances at Sunshine. “No opinion? Not a fan of museums?”

She gnaws at her perch.

“Guess not.” He smiles softly and asks the voice assistant for the time.

Sunshine squawks at the impersonal digitized answer.

“I suppose I could call Ainsley, she’s not on air for another few hours.”

He doesn’t. And he still hasn’t figured out what he’s going to do with the rest of his afternoon as he rides the elevator down, but it’s definitely not wasting another few hours in the kitchen sifting through the same stacks of files. He’s practically memorized all of them.

“Excuse me, Mr. Bright?”

Malcolm stops on a dime at the doorman’s familiar voice. He’d been so lost in thought he hadn’t even said hello on his way back in from the run. He beams a wide smile at the man and focuses the full force of his attention on him to make up for it. “Pat, hi, sorry.” He tries not to be as oblivious to staff as his mother is, but old habits run deep. At least he’s taken the time to learn the man’s name. “It’s been an… interesting morning.”

Pat nods and waves towards the mail room at the rear of the lobby. “Just wanted to let you know that the postman came in a half hour ago. You usually ask.”

“Mail! Yes. Thank you, you’re a life saver.” Clapping the man on the arm with genuine thanks, Malcolm goes to the desk to retrieve the day’s mail. It’s been enough days without a letter from the killer that he isn’t expecting anything, but amongst the scatter of glossy junkmail postcards, one envelope stands out.

His hand trembles, not from fear but from excitement as he pulls it to the forefront. The handwriting is unmistakable.

Stifling the urge to tear it open, Malcolm tucks the bundle into the leaf of his suit jacket and calls a car. Less than five minutes later, as soon as he’s in the back seat with a bit of privacy, he’s calling Gil.

From the outside, the letter looks the same as the other two envelopes they have in evidence: simple block writing and an underline beneath the Mr & Mr Bright.

The call connects, his excited, “Gil, we got a letter,” met with a relieved sigh on the other end. “And it looks like you took my name,” he adds with a touch of amusement. “I’m coming in.”

“Take your time; we don’t want to spook the guy. Whatever you do, don’t come charging down straight to the precinct.”

Waiting any longer sounds terrible, but Gil’s right. They’ve got the guy on the hook, and now that he’s made contact, he might have already upped his surveillance. With the thrill of a fresh lead singing in his veins Malcolm has the driver take him around the city for a few random errands and eventually drop him off in the East Village. Careful he isn’t being followed, Malcolm ducks into the subway to head to the precinct.

Once there, after passing the letter to Gil to put into evidence, Malcolm kills time with some new files in the situation room until both of the detectives are available. It takes a while to review the newest information on the list of addresses he’d provided of possible sight lines into the townhouse. He’s moved on to the latest additions to the case board by the time JT and Dani come in.

“How’s the high life?” JT claps Malcolm on the back as he moves past.

Glancing over his shoulder briefly to flash JT a smile, Malcolm waves a hand dismissively and offers a breezy, “Not sure I’m cut out to be a house husband.” He flips through the newer photos on the board—the ones that he’s only seen color copies of. There are others that Gil was probably going to bring home tonight. More background from the lives of the three victims.

Dani perches on the edge of the table. “Missed you around here. The boss treating you right? He, uh, the snuggling type?”

“Never kiss and tell, Detective Powell,” Gil says, not batting an eye as he strolls in with a notepad in hand. He tucks it under his arm as all eyes to turn to him. “I just got off the phone with the lab. Nothing we didn’t expect from preliminary tests, so let’s go over the contents of the letter, shall we? What’s different about this one?”

JT spins the copy of the letter around to be right side up for everyone else before bracing his hands on the table. “All three letters use the phrases cherish and protect, the way it’s used here might be a reference to uh, Malcolm’s stature. _Even the littlest ones deserve to be cherished_.”

“So definitely not the snuggling type,” Dani muses. She taps her finger on the last sentence. “What do you think he means here, that he’d hoped you two would be different.”

“Most killers who aren’t sociopaths wrestle with their own conscience,” Malcolm explains. “It’s possible his remorse is beginning to tip the scales and outweigh the mission that’s driving him to carry out these murders.”

JT’s eyes catch his. “You think he might stop?”

“Not likely. Men like him rarely do, but it does make him more prone to acting rashly and making mistakes. Some killers desire to be caught for notoriety, others seek to be forced to stop. He might be the latter, or since the letter is addressed to Mr. and Mr. Bright, the killer may be more fixated on me and possibly believes that by killing me he could be saving me from a life of mistreatment at the hands of my older paramour.”

“No running in the park,” Gil says firmly. “Before you object, I don’t care how busy it is, it’s inside yoga until we can set up a team to shadow you.”

Malcolm nods, although if he never steps foot outside, they’re not going to have any opportunities to draw the killer out. He glances over to find Gil still looking at him expectantly. “I promise.” He presses a hand to his heart and agrees, slowly and with emphasis, to no more morning runs and no going out without backup in place.

“All right. I’m glad that’s settled.” Satisfied, Gil turns to JT. In the familiar space of this room, it’s hard for Malcolm to reconcile that only hours ago Gil had kissed him and referred to himself as Daddy. “Get some plainclothes in the area around the clock. We don’t know when this guy might come out of the woodwork.”

“And me?” Dani raises a brow and tips her head towards the bullpen. “I’m still waiting on those records. You want me to make sure your trophy husband makes it home in one piece?” She’s clearly getting a real kick out of the whole situation. Her lips press together into a line, cheeks dimpling.

Gil blithely ignores the teasing. “If you don’t mind,” he says, waving his notepad to shoo them out before he disappears back into his office.

Dani nods towards the door. “C’mon sugar bottom, call us a car while I grab my stuff.”

Absently getting out his phone and opening the app, Malcolm murmurs, “Sure, I’m on it,” as she exits. He calls a car, but his attention keeps pulling back to the new photos on the board. They’re just domestic shots featuring the victims as they lived. Filler provided by friends and family, none of them were taken in the victims’ homes. “I’m just gonna….”

He unpins the photos and dashes down the hall to make a few copies, leaving the originals scattered on JT’s desk as he follows Dani out.

In the car, he studies the pictures in more detail. The driver takes another long circuitous route to avoid being tracked back to the precinct, and eventually Dani asks what Malcolm’s looking for. 

The photos were proof to trace timelines or to back up claims that the couples were happy together, and it’s the timeline that’s been bugging him. Why today? The letter had to have been put into the post yesterday so it wasn’t the night out. What happened two days ago that caught their killers attention?

“I don’t know yet.” Malcolm frowns as he holds a photo up to the window for more light. He should’ve just taken the originals; the copies lost a lot of detail. There’s another pattern here he isn’t quite able to connect, hanging like a momentarily forgotten phrase on the tip of his tongue. “Can you send the originals to my phone later?”

“Sure, Bright.”

Another twenty minutes pass in creeping traffic. When the long loop turns them southbound onto Central Park West, Dani's attention slides his way again. “So is it weird?”

“Is what weird?”

“Pretending to be married to the boss.”

Glancing up from the pile of pages that refuse to reveal anything new, Malcolm folds them up to tuck in the leaf of his suit jacket. He sucks on his bottom lip as he tries to formulate an answer. “Yes,” he says, “… and no.”

“I think it’d be weird.”

“Well long before Gil was my boss, he was my—” Words really can’t explain the depth and breadth of what Gil has meant to him over the years. “My friend.”

Her eyes narrow, gaze turning calculating. It’s obvious she’s connecting some dots, but what he doesn’t expect is her cocking her head to the side to pin him with a _look_ and say, “No way. You’re in love with him. Like for real.”

Completely unprepared to pivot or lie or do anything other than pinken under her scrutiny, Malcolm stammers out a highly unconvincing, “What?” He pulls his hand into his lap, knuckles folding to hide the tremor. “I—“

The surprise on Dani’s face fades to her own brand of flustered. “Hey, it’s okay,” she says, tone hushed and her own fingers twisting together in her lap. She blows a soft breath out through her nose. “I shouldn’t have said anything. It’s none of my business who you’re into, Bright.”

Her mouth staying pursed gives Malcolm a whole new puzzle to put together. His feelings for Gil sit so deeply that he can’t remember a time that he wasn’t in love with the man, but his feelings for Dani are a whole different sort of confusing. It’s been a dance—an awkward and strained dance—and every time he thinks that maybe there’s something there he can’t quite bring himself to believe it.

But is she uncomfortable because it’s Gil, or…

Traffic beside the park is a snarl of bumper to bumper, and in Malcolm’s throat, the words he wants to say are similarly backed up. It takes blocks for him to admit aloud in a breathy rush that Gil isn’t the only person he’s harboring unrequited feelings for.

Dani sneaks a look his way as stinging heat hits his ears. He avoids meeting her eyes—what if there’s pity there?—instead turning his head to study the pedestrians on the park side. The tour buses that line up outside the Natural History Museum are gone and the crowds have thinned, clearing out as the sun goes down. A few people are out walking their dogs now instead of waiting a few hours until they can let them off leash.

Off leash… Something clicks into place like the last tumbler in a lock and Malcolm scrambles to pull out the photos again, hastily passing one of the pictures over to Dani.

“Is that a dog bed?” He points to a small blurry object in the background.

“I think it is, yeah. Why?”

“What happened to the dog? There was nothing in the house when we were there to suggest they owned one.”

Dani shrugs, not following the leap of his logic. “Guy had it when we followed up with him a few days ago. Noisy thing. His sugar baby didn’t like it yapping, maybe?”.

“What about the other victims?”

“You’re thinking this has something to do with dogs?”

“Not dogs specifically. Did Jennifer and her wife have any pets?”

Dani pulls out her phone to review her notes. Her brows pull together as she finds what she’s looking for. She glances up to meet Malcolm’s gaze, her posture shifting to attention as she recognizes the urgency in his question. “The wife said something about Jennifer being upset after having to put down their dog.”

“And the other couple? Malcolm moves the photo of the gay couple roughly the same ages as he and Gil to the top of the stack. He can’t see it here, but if he remembers correctly, the older man’s sweater had a scatter of fur on it.

“Now that you mention it, I didn’t see a cat, but there was a bag of litter with the grocery delivery.”

“Litter box was probably hidden in some furniture, and the cat could’ve been hiding or boarded,” Malcolm theorizes. “See if you can find out if the victim was allergic or had any history of cruelty towards animals.”

“I’ll call JT right now,” Dani says, pulling up her partner’s contact. “What about your other theory?”

“Well, I was beginning to consider that maybe the killer hadn’t contacted us because he’d tapped into the smart home system and were able to listen in, a method he could’ve used to find their other victims, but I think this confirms he’s watching, not listening, and based on the timeline, the letter was sent only after I moved Sunshine‘s birdcage near the window.”

“So he wasn’t making a dig at your height, he was referring to your bird?”

“That, and I think I may have run into him in the park yesterday. Our killer might be a pet sitter.” Malcolm gestures towards the steady stream of foot traffic. “Think about it. Someone like that is practically invisible in this neighborhood; always in and around the buildings in the area, plenty of time to figure out who is mistreating their most vulnerable loved ones. Any number of things could’ve set them off. In fact, he might have access to some of the apartments that I’ve been tracking. We only looked at residents and close personal staff.”

“Makes sense. Could’ve been hired through an app. If they weren’t on the payroll, we didn’t even ask,” Dani says, raising the phone to her ear to relay information to JT.

Malcolm works to remember as many details as he can about the guy in the park—the one who had given him the evil eye for getting tangled up in the leashes. Only, it turns out he doesn’t need to.

“Stop the car,” Malcolm tells the driver, already cracking open the door. “That’s him. Peacoat and green hat. Call for backup.”

Exiting into the street, the other cars move slowly enough that he can slip through them without causing a commotion. He doesn’t look back to see if Dani’s following.

He puts on a wide grin as he approaches the suspect. A small wave and a, “Hey!” catches the man’s attention. “I ran into you yesterday didn’t I? Literally ran into. Sorry about that.”

He draws the trio of leashes in closer to him, knuckles whitening in his grip. Muscles jump at the hinge of his jaw. Guilt and fear seep into his expression. Malcolm’s blood rises.

“I don’t know if you’re looking for new clients, but my husband and I just moved into the neighborhood earlier this week.” He points down the block to gauge the way the suspect’s eyes follow the motion—jumping right to the San Remo’s distinctive towers to confirm the man knows precisely where Malcolm lives. “Our former pet sitter is a little too far away now; I don’t suppose you also take care of birds?

“Sunshine, that’s her name—she’s my little princess—and she’s stuck in a tiny cage until we get her room properly set up.” Malcolm presses a hand to his chest and cranks up the charm. “All I want is to make sure she’s getting the attention she deserves. If not you, maybe you have a reference? Someone you’d recommend?”

The suspect’s demeanor does a complete one-eighty, his body language immediately warming to Malcolm, though an edge of nervousness remains as he fumbles the leashes into one hand to pat at his pants pockets.

“Oh dang. I don’t have a card on me.”

Malcolm pulls out his phone, thumbing it open. “That’s okay. Maybe you can just give me your number? I’m Malcolm, by the way.”

“Hugo,” the guy says, hand moving to his coat. He pauses midway to grabbing his phone, something down the street drawing his gaze. Malcolm tosses a quick glance over his shoulder to see Dani heading towards them, hand hovering at her holster. Hugo glances back at Malcolm and the jig is up. He’s spooked, panic flaring in the whites of his eyes before he drops the leashes and takes off towards the trees.

Malcolm dodges the little hairless pup darting through his legs and takes off after the suspect. Behind him, Dani’s footsteps pick up the pace to match as she shouts into her phone: “Change of plans. We’re in pursuit! Get Animal Control to 77th.”

Having gone full tilt to clear his head after that wildly confusing kiss from Gil, his muscles scream at the fresh exertion. He focuses first on not losing sight of Hugo until he can pick up speed, and when the adrenaline kicks in, he grits his teeth and gives it everything he’s got, closing enough distance to risk cutting across the grass to intercept the man.

Skidding down a slop, Malcolm vaults over a bench in order to tackle the guy and drag him down in the middle of the pedestrian path. They tumble to the ground in a tangle, the pavement shredding through the wool of Malcolm’s suit. A sharp flare of hurt lances up his side, easily ignored as he secures the suspect.

Dani appears seconds later with her gun drawn, her breath not nearly as labored as his. Wincing, Malcolm picks himself up, hauling Hugo with him as Dani holsters her weapon and draws out her cuffs.

“You couldn’t have waited, Bright?” she snaps, moving to take Hugo into custody.

He wheezes a quiet laugh. The scrape down his thigh wells with blood, slacks sticking to his leg. “We got him didn’t we?” He limps along beside them as Dani frowns and steers Hugo back towards 77th. “And if Gil says anything, you’re my witness. I called for backup.”

“Hell no. I’m not picking sides. If my mama taught me one thing it’s never get in the middle of a married couple.”

“We’re not… actually married.”

She opens her mouth as if she’s about to say something, but in the end her only real response is a slight shake of her head and a faint smile. He’ll take it. It carries the same sort of fondness, maybe, that he often senses in Gil.


	5. Chapter 5

Dani gets Hugo into a squad car and taken in for questioning, while Malcolm suffers through the EMTs cleaning and bandaging the scrape along his left side. It takes a while, and he thanks them as they help him out of the back of the bus. One of the uniforms comes to check on him, but he waves away any further offers of assistance to limp down the block. He’s going to be a mess of bruises for the next few days.

“Looks like you’ve had an eventful day, Mr. Bright,” the doorman remarks. He doesn’t say anything about the slit cut all the way up to the thigh on Malcolm’s slacks, or the angry looking scrapes along his hand and arm. By the offended look an older woman gives him as she steps out of an elevator, Malcolm’s fairly sure the co-op board will hear about the ruckus. At least he feels he can count on Pat to be discreet.

“You know what, Pat?” Brow furrowed, Malcolm nods in agreement as he shuffles by. “It really was. I can’t thank you enough for reminding me about the mail this morning.”

“My pleasure. Enjoy the rest of your evening, Mr. Bright.”

“You too.”

When he’s upstairs, freshly changed into something loose and comfortable, Malcolm almost misses Gil’s call. He fumbles the phone to his ear as he limps towards the library.

“Hey kid, Dani says you took a tumble.”

“I’m fine.” Malcolm carefully lowers himself into a chair. After a beat he adds, “Just a nasty scrape and a few bruises.”

“Well, stay put. Our killer is singing like Sunshine. He’s giving a full confession and brass is going to want to put out a statement, so I’m just waiting to hand that off before I head home.”

“You’re coming back here?” They’d caught their killer, so that means they don’t need to pretend to be anything anymore. Gil’s things here aren’t even his own.

“Promised you dinner, didn’t I? What do you want?”

Recalling just how Gil had made that promise, Malcolm swallows around the knot in his throat. “Surprise me.”

“You got it.”

After a few minutes sitting in stunned silence, Malcolm makes a slow trip to the kitchen to grab a bag of baby carrots to share with Sunshine. If Gil is going to cook, he definitely doesn’t want his stomach empty and cramping by the time a proper meal presents itself. Forcibly distracting himself by burying his nose in a book, he’s in high spirits when Gil comes through the door with groceries. 

Spotting Malcolm in the library, Gil gestures with his chin. “Put that book down, wash your hands, and get ready to help me with this.”

Malcolm grins. “Yes, chef.”

“Just a scrape, huh,” Gil scoffs, trailing after Malcolm’s stiff-legged limp to the kitchen. He puts the bags on the counter and cocks his hip against the marble.

The scrutiny burns at Malcolm’s neck as he washes his hands and dries them on a tea towel. Gil rolls an onion towards him. “Medium chop?”

“Dice this time, but before you start, fix Daddy a drink would you?”

The onion’s skin rasps under his fingers as his grip tightens. He frowns, heart thumping hard behind his ribs. “Gil, I–” Somehow Malcolm summons up the courage to turn to him and say what needs to be said. “What are we playing at?”

Unfazed by the scrutiny, Gil pulls a glass down from the cabinets and holds it out. “You caught the killer so tomorrow this place turns back into a pumpkin. If this is our last night as married men, I figured you might want to stay a princess until the clock strikes twelve.” A hint of merry mischief crinkles the corners of his eyes.

Fingers closing carefully around the glass, Malcolm tries to decipher more of Gil’s body language and still comes up lacking. “I’ll admit, pretending to be married has been sort of fun, but are you saying that you think I’m into— That I’d want to call my husband Daddy?”

Gil pushes away from the counter. His hands fall on Malcolm’s shoulders, squeezing firmly as he leans in to whisper, “Kid, I know precisely what kind of clubs I pulled you out of before you cleaned up your act and went off to college.” Another squeeze, a solid pat, and then Gil’s grabbing a package wrapped in butcher paper while chuckling, “I’d bet my left nut on it.”

“This is mortifying,” Malcolm mumbles, his brows merging with his hairline as he goes up on his toes and busies himself with the liquor cabinet.

“I can cut it out.”

“Well, I didn’t say that.” If he’s being given carte blanche to live out this lie for a few more hours, Malcolm figures he might as well take what he can get. But, this isn’t all about him. He plunks the tumbler down on the counter and skewers Gil with a look. “Hold on a minute. Do _you_ like it?”

Gil’s brow wings upward. He continues prepping the meat. “You tell me, kid. You’re the profiler.”

“I—” Malcolm bites his lip. His mind kicks into high gear, assessing Gil’s posture and the wicked gleam of his dark eyes and comes up, yet again, with more questions than answers. There’s definitely some inner conflict hinted at in the slope of Gil’s shoulders, but it could mean any number of things. He could be playing along solely for Malcolm’s benefit, or feeling uneasy about breaking a few rules about conduct between colleagues.

The only way to find out the truth, is to up the stakes. Malcolm twists the lid off a jar and pulls a cherry from the syrup. He very purposefully sucks it off his fingers before asking, “How sweet does Daddy want his drink?”

“Not so sweet that Daddy can’t taste the bitter with the sugar.”

“Nice.” Malcolm pops another cherry into his mouth and starts mixing. “I see that innuendo is now on the menu.”

“You love it.”

Malcolm grins and doesn’t deny a thing. As he preps and Gil cooks, they trade banter that edges towards flirting and a warm glow spreads to fill the whole of him. This is the closeness he’d been missing. The easy back and forth that they’d fallen into over the last week. If only he could be this smooth flirting with someone for real.

With no further need to stay near the east end of the house, they don’t set a proper table and eat at the banquette. Malcolm is still seated at Gil’s right, only here they’re close enough to occasionally bump knees. Each time, the contact jumps straight to the pit of his belly until eventually Gil stretches his leg out and it becomes a constant warm press against his shin.

Is Gil winding him up? Could it be more than that?

Despite keeping a keen watch on Gil throughout the meal, Malcolm finds himself no closer to knowing.

“One more bite.” Gil holds out a bit of roasted squash speared on the tines of his fork. “For Daddy?”

Malcolm tips his head to the side and groans. He’s eaten plenty. “No more; I’ll never get to sleep if I’m stuffed.” He closes his eyes with a wry smile as he hears what he’s just said. It’s been an escalating game of innuendo, but this time he hadn’t even meant it. “Don’t say it.”

“What? That Daddy likes to see his boy stuffed full?” He wiggles the fork as Malcolm cracks an eye open and hopes the heat creeping up his neck doesn’t bloom in his cheeks. “Last chance, Bright.”

One more bite isn’t going to make him feel over full, so Malcolm tosses his napkin to the table and leans forward, his gaze holding on Gil’s as if this isn’t all make believe. As if this is a scene and all the sly remarks had been meant to push him to this moment. He wrinkles his nose, mutters a petulant, “Fine,” and scrapes his teeth over his lip, “but only because Daddy asked so very nicely.”

He doesn’t take the bite from the proffered fork, but rather opens his mouth and rolls his tongue out over his lip, waiting and ready. The look in Gil’s eye remains unreadable, and the longer Malcolm maintains the position, the faster his pulse gets. Was this a bad idea? The wrong move entirely?

He’s about to fold and apologize when Gil plucks the bit of squash off the fork. He balances it on the tip of his finger and holds it in front of Malcolm’s face. “Take it.”

“No.” Malcolm smirks. “Feed it to me, Daddy.”

That, finally, spurs a measurable reaction. The pink of Gil’s tongue presses behind his teeth and the light from this angle warms the deep brown of his eyes enough that Malcolm can measure the keen flare of Gil’s pupils. If this isn’t proof that he’s not the only one having a good time, it’s the closest he’ll get. Malcolm’s fingers curl into his palm as his heart speeds at the idea that Gil might be getting off on this a little, too. 

Throat bobbing in a quick swallow, he shifts, letting his leg slide against Gil’s. He parts his lips again, tongue inviting the finger that slides into his waiting mouth.

He closes his lips, sucking the savory little morsel straight off Gil’s finger. It’s soft enough to swallow without chewing and he doesn’t pull away when it vanishes down his throat, instead sliding his mouth down to Gil’s knuckles. His mouth floods wet and his lashes flicker shut as Gil’s finger sits thick and heavy against his palate. A moan starts to build in his chest as he curls his tongue, his pants already impossibly tight.

Gil hastily withdraws his finger, muttering, “You win,” as he wipes his hand on a napkin. 

The moment shatters like glass. Malcolm’s eyes blink open. “What?”

“You win,” Gil repeats. He slides out of the bench seat wrapping around the banquette and takes his dish to the sink. He clears his throat as he rinses it and loads it into the dishwasher. “No more Daddy stuff, kid, I’m calling uncle.”

“Did I do something wrong?” A queasy nervousness kills the buzz building up along Malcolm’s skin. He hugs his arms to his chest.

“No, of course not,” Gil reassures, concern writ on his face. He fiddles with a tea towel. “This thing we were just doing. It— The case is over. I’ll still stay the night, but goofing around like that is something I shouldn’t have started. It’s inappropriate.”

Twisting his wedding band—his real wedding band, unlike the one on Malcolm’s finger—Gil turns and leaves Malcolm lingering in the kitchen. The satisfied fullness in Malcolm’s stomach slowly transforms into a hard, nauseating lump. He hears the television come on in the living room and sighs into his hands. He’d fucked up. God, he’d fucked up. He’d let this fantasy of his go way too far and yes, maybe Gil had been kind of into it, but ultimately he’d made Gil uncomfortable. That’s the last thing he’s ever wanted.

With a miserable groan, Malcolm gets to his feet. He takes care of the rest of the dishes and slinks down the far hallway to the master bedroom, intending to brush his teeth and just hole up with his book again in order to give Gil as much space as he needs.

*

A couple hours lost in the story he’d been devouring, and the anxiety gnawing at him has lessened enough that his chest doesn’t tighten painfully when Gil raps lightly on the door before entering.

“I’m gonna…” Gil jerks a thumb towards the bathroom like he suddenly needs permission to move around in the space Malcolm occupies.

“Okay.”

When he returns he’s already changed for bed, preserving a bit more modesty than any other night by wearing an undershirt and thin jersey pajama bottoms not unlike Malcolm’s. “You didn’t have to come back,” Malcolm says, very purposefully keeping his eyes on the page of his book. “You could’ve gone home to sleep in your own bed without someone thrashing around next to you.”

“This bed is a lot more comfortable than mine, and you don’t flail around as much as you think. Jackie, now, she was a kicker.”

Knowing he can’t retreat from this, Malcolm closes his book and sets it aside. He folds his hands and glances up at Gil, memories crowding in of all the times he’d been lucky enough to be a part of their shared lives. “You must miss her a great deal.” 

“More than you’ll ever know, kid.”

“I wish I had considered how hard this must’ve been for you. Pretending to be married again, I mean. I just figured it would be awkward because of our shared history.” He gestures between them, the gold of the ring on his finger glinting in the light. Sighing, he slips it off his finger and rubs a thumb over the band. “I didn’t even consider Jackie in the equation and I’m ashamed to admit it.”

“The truth is,” Gil says, sitting down heavily on the edge of the bed, “this fake marriage of ours wasn’t bad at all. It was nice, Bright. I don’t think I realized just how lonely I was.”

It’s not the same, not at all, but Malcolm can empathize. He misses that fantasy Martin that lives only in his memory. That father that was never quite perfect but who wasn’t the monster he revealed himself to be. The man who had meant the world to him and who he’ll never have in his life again. Gil’s memories of Jackie aren’t tainted the way his memories are, but Gil must be adrift too. A big part of who Gil had been was excised and not fully healed even three years after the loss.

Tentatively, Malcolm lays a hand on Gil’s shoulder. Touch has always been one way between them, and surprisingly Gil doesn’t tense up. He tips slightly sideways to offer a gentle shoulder bump, casual and friendly, but warm.

“It was fun last night taking you out dancing.” Gil’s wistful smile quirks upward. “And yeah, a little awkward. Dinner, too. But don't get me wrong, I’ve made a few stupid decisions this week, but I don’t regret agreeing to work this case with you.”

“You only love me for my eight burner range with built-in grill.” Malcolm chuckles, relieved that things have smoothed out a bit again between them. He carefully slides down, only wincing a bit at the stiffness in his leg and in his shoulder as he reaches up to clip his wrists in.

Gil lets out a low appreciative whistle. “Oh, that kitchen. You’ll never understand.”

“If you really can’t part with it my mother would probably deed me this entire townhouse as a wedding gift; she’s convinced I’ll never get married for real.”

Gil laughs. “Don’t tempt me.”

“I’d have to say no anyway.” Malcolm slides his eyes shut to mask the hollowness yawning beneath the teasing tone of his voice. “If we got married, I wouldn’t be allowed to work with you. Guess you’ll just have to settle for dinner parties at my loft and the occasional night out dancing.”

“I guess so,” Gil agrees quietly.

“The other bedrooms do have linens if you’d rather. I’d offer, but the headboards won’t fit my restraints.”

“Shut it, kid, I’m not going anywhere.” Gil gets under the covers and voices a command to turn off the lights.

Malcolm had known that this is how things would end, right back at the start. It isn’t so bad, objectively speaking. So long as he hasn’t ruined anything, being quietly in love with Gil is just going to be more difficult now that he’s lived the fantasy.

As usual, Gil’s breathing evens out and deepens fairly quickly and leaves Malcolm struggling with his thoughts in the dark. This is the last night he’ll spend at Gil’s side, and for a while he’s stuck on how he’s going to possibly manage to act normally in the morning. When he’s exhausted that to its end, other more familiar nighttime thoughts creep in, the highlight reel of the day playing over and over in his mind: the kiss at the car, fixing Gil’s drink, the feel of having Gil’s finger slid into his mouth, the words ‘ _Daddy likes to see his boy stuffed full_ ’ coming out of Gil’s.

Fuck.

Because of the bandage taped up all along his side, Malcolm stupidly didn’t take another shower and ‘take care of business’ as he had every night since the first. His usual inability to wind down coupled with the persistent ache of his cock keeps him wide-eyed in the dark. The events of today are going to fuel his fantasies for _years._

Any movement at all makes him aware of the tent in his shorts, and the restraints keep his arms at his chest, not providing enough slack to fully turn on his side. Too deep of a breath shifts the covers to drag over his erection and every time he thinks his hard on is going down, something—the soft sound of Gil’s breath, or the scent of his skin, or just the idea of Gil’s leg touching to his—springs his dick right back up again. Minutes crawl by like hours.

Every so often, he dares to purposefully move his hips, teeth digging into his lip as his cock throbs in response.

Not quite dead to the world yet, at some point Gil’s voice comes floating through the darkness: “Can’t sleep?”

“Just the usual. Can’t quite shut off yet.”

“Mmm. Seems like you were getting better these past couple nights.”

Malcolm hasn’t really thought about it, but his dreams have definitely been less intense and he hasn’t been moving through the day with the sort of bone deep exhaustion he’s normally fighting.

With a grunt, Gil turns towards him and releases the clips on the restraints. He catches Malcolm’s wrist and tugs to urge him to move close. “C’mere, works in the middle of the night well enough.”

Breath catching in his throat, Malcolm resists; he can’t turn towards Gil, no way. He’s so fucking hard it’ll be impossible to miss. And if he turns to face the wall and Gil pulls him close to spoon him, he’ll never fall asleep. It’ll take every ounce of willpower in him to refrain from tracing his fingers over his dick. From not coming in his pajama bottoms with the soft nudge of Gil's cock nestled right at his ass.

When he remains frozen, Gil loosens his hold, mumbles, “Sorry, I shouldn’t have,” and shifts.

Malcolm’s chest twinges. It’s not that he doesn’t want to be in Gil’s arms.

Gil’s weight jostles the mattress. He pushes himself up onto an elbow and orders the lights on a ten percent. The shadows recede as the recessed lights along the perimeter of the room come on. Malcolm curls onto his side, gaze tracing the contours of Gil’s face in the dim, warm light.

“I can move to another bed.” Gil’s giving him the same quiet once-over. In this moment, he’s easy to read, concern written in the twist of his thin brows. “There’s no reason I need to sleep in here with you.”

Malcolm doesn’t know what to say. There’s no right answer. Gil must know what hangs between them now is inescapable. He must know—even if maybe he hasn’t grasped the extent of it—how specifically Malcolm wants _him_. Malcolm’s pulse thunders in his skull. The truth feels too big to say.

“I don’t want you to,” he admits, words thundering in the quiet.

Confusion trickles into the lines of Gil’s face. Frustration, too, Malcolm notes. Gil’s trying to understand, and… and what? 

“What do you want, kid? You want me to stay, or go?”

A dozen answers crowd in Malcolm’s throat, all of them clamoring to be spoken aloud. Truths he’s been holding onto for years and realizations he’s come to these past few days seek to drag them down into the acid churn of his stomach. Fighting the inertia, Malcolm sits up, crossing his good leg under the covers and twisting to look sidelong at Gil.

“What you said,” Malcolm picks his words carefully, “when you were getting into bed…” Already he needs to pause to regulate his breathing before it turns quick and shallow like his pulse. “That this has been good and nice, and that you’d been lonely. I— It’s been the same for me. Gil, I didn’t know how lonely I was and it’s been wonderful and scary at the same time.” Once freed, the words rush out of him, a visceral spill that lays him bare. “I don’t want to pack up and go home tomorrow to an empty bed.”

“Shit, kid,” Gil breathes. He shoves his pillows up against the headboard and leans against them, offering his arm for Malcolm to curl under. For a moment, Malcolm flashes back to being fourteen and vulnerable, tucked up beside Gil on his couch begging to move in with him and Jackie. He shakes his head and doesn’t take the offered hug.

He closes his eyes, and takes the plunge instead. “What I want is something I don’t think you want to give me.” He forces the words past the blockade of apprehension tightening his throat, voice quavering with strain. “I’ve been in love with you since I can remember, and it’s been so easy to pretend. I’m sure you know, especially after today, but I— Earlier tonight when we—” A sudden shaking in his shoulders cascades to his extremities and he rolls his head back to stare at the ceiling. “This is so embarrassing.”

“Oh, Malcolm, of course I knew; it’s a big part of why I didn’t want to do this.” Gil smoothes a hand over his frown and combs his fingers through his beard. “This whole week I’ve felt like shit half the time and if taking you out last night was bad, today was the straw for the proverbial camel.”

Malcolm flinches, gutshot, and Gil hastily takes his hand, palms curling warm around his trembling fingers. “No, not like that. Not because of you,” Gil assures. “It’s me. This whole time I’ve played into it more than I should’ve. I let it get to my head, you know. It’s been a while since I—” His mouth works soundlessly as he struggles with his own confession, and the bands around Malcolm’s chest ease as he begins to recognize that maybe it wasn’t only teasing after all.

He glances down to Gil’s hands on his, heat stirring again low in his belly and at the back of his neck. “Since you, what?”

“Look, it doesn’t matter. You need to find someone your own age, kid. Someone like Dani. She’s smart and tough, and I’m not blind. The two of you have a little thing going.”

“I admit I do like her, but—” God, has it always been so obvious to everyone around him when he’s sort of into someone romantically? That idea alone is even more mortifying. He’s gotten progressively interested in the entire team, if he’s being honest with himself. It’s been a long time since he’s wanted to actually risk dating anyone. Do they all know? Is his poker face really that bad?

Gil squeezes Malcolm’s hand tighter, brows raising as if somehow his feelings towards Dani solve everything. “Good, and I don’t want to mess that up for you.”

“I’m perfectly capable of messing it up on my own, thanks,” Malcolm says wryly, retrieving his hand. No longer feeling quite so on the back foot, he’s already begun to pick apart what problems he’s identified. “Besides, if you really were a swinger then you know that dating or sex with more than one person doesn’t invalidate an existing relationship. In theory anyway, I know that some swingers are just there for the—”

Malcolm waves to shut himself up before he goes down an expository rabbit hole. “Put aside all of that. Are you…” Swallowing a fresh lump in his throat, he risks lighting the fuse tangled amongst the emotions hanging between them. “Are you saying that you want me?”

Asked point blank, the stressors Gil’s kept well-hidden blossom like fireworks, impossible to miss. He does, Malcolm realizes, a fresh tremor seizing his belly as the warmth there turns molten, blazes liquid through his veins.

Gil’s nostrils flare as he grinds his teeth, but he doesn’t avoid the question. “Despite my better judgment,” he mutters. “Whoever said with age comes wisdom was full of it.” Sigh exploding into the air, he flings aside the covers and Malcolm can’t help but notice he’s not the only one sitting thick in his shorts. “I need to get myself out of here before something happens we both regret.”

Snapping his hand out to catch hold of Gil’s arm just above the elbow, Malcolm stares shocked at his own grip for a heartbeat before doubling down. “Please don’t go.”

“Malcolm…”

“It’s our last night here. Chalk it up to… I don’t know, the euphoria of having solved a big case.” He knows he sounds more than a little desperate, but if this is his chance, he has to take it. If Gil wants him, too, how could he possibly live with knowing that if he doesn’t try?

“Stay with me.” Heart hammering, he shoves the covers back to prove just how turned on he is, and gnaws on the corner of his lip. “Please, Daddy.”

Gil skims a quick look down the whole of Malcolm’s body before turning his gaze away with a groan. “Fuck, kid” 

Carefully, Malcolm rolls to crawling, putting all his weight to his good knee, his other leg trailing off the bed behind him. Raw lust travels through his body in shuddering shakes telegraphed through the mattress. He licks his lips, terrified to find himself saying, “Just let me get a taste of Daddy’s cock,” between choppy breaths. He’s never imagined he’d say this aloud to Gil, let alone that Gil would be equally turned on by it.

Gil, with his own faint tremors is poised to leave, and even as his gaze drops back to land on Malcolm he’s not entirely _looking._ He’s desperately clutching to the idea that he can walk away from this. And he can, of course, Malcolm wouldn’t push it.

But until that wall goes up, he’s going to push as hard as he fucking can. Fingers tingling, Malcolm reaches out to gather Gil’s wrist, pulse skipping beneath his touch as he draws Gil’s hand towards his mouth. He flicks a soft, kittenish lick across rough knuckles before mouthing a kiss there, tongue pushing between Gil’s fingers and letting a quiet moan follow.

“Malcolm—”

“You said you knew the kind of clubs I went to, and you’re right, I’ve always gotten off hard on calling men Daddy. It’s probably no surprise that I haven’t really changed.” He dares to look up as he drags the flat of his tongue up from Gil’s fingertips all the way up past his knuckles to his wrist. Delivering a light bite there, he can sense Gil’s wavering resolve. Another scrape of teeth, the lower of his lashes, and instead of pulling away, Gil twists his hand, silently offering a more intimate touch.

A surge of triumph joins the chemical rush thick in Malcolm’s veins. 

He turns his cheek to meet Gil’s palm, rubbing his face there before licking the salt taste of his skin. “I’ve just gotten better at knowing what I want and… why I want it.” 

_You’re a big part of that,_ stays unspoken. His eyes squeeze tight, lips tracing the lines in Gil’s palm.

“Right now all I want is to make you feel good and I want—” Malcolm swallows, because it’s always so much more difficult when he’s with someone he cares about to say what it is that _he_ desires. “I want to leave here knowing what it’s really like to suck you off and not some stand-in I’ve met at a leather bar.”

Gil’s swift inhale ends in a shudder, and when Malcolm looks up at him to say, “I want you to choke me on your dick, Daddy,” the breath that leaves him carries a whispered curse.

“Please.” Malcolm catches two of Gil’s fingers with his tongue and sucks them in as deep as he can when he’s not warmed up for it. If all he gets out of tonight is this… His eyes slip shut, lines easing from his forehead, buoyed now by the glorious contentment of having something in his mouth. He sucks Gil’s fingers until there’s nothing left to taste on his skin. Until Gil groans a soft, “Christ, Malcolm,” and twists his hand, not to pull away but to stroke the inside of Malcolm’s cheek and the ripples of his palate.

Those questing fingers push deeper, then drag back to pin Malcolm’s tongue. A soft rustling sound reaches Malcolm’s ears and his lashes flutter open to find Gil palming himself through his pajama bottoms. The knot of fingers against his tongue mutes the groan ripping free of his chest, but the livewire thrill arcs through him unimpeded. His hips twitch involuntarily, and he slides his mouth off Gil’s fingers to say, “Show me your cock, Daddy.” Between licks he pleads softly, “I want to see it, please,” and grinds against the mattress, begging, “please, Gil, let me suck you.”

He forgets how to breathe when Gil’s thumb hooks into the waistband of his pajama bottoms and he inches them down. The dark patch of his pubes is scattered through with a bit of white just like his beard, and Malcolm breathes out a reverent, “Oh fuck,” as the base of his cock peeks out over the elastics. “Fuck, yes.”

Aiming to crawl towards the edge of the bed, he brings his bandaged leg forward without thinking, and his yelp of pain does the very opposite of what he wants. Gil stops easing his shorts down and that mouthwatering flash of his cock disappears. But Gil curls fingers under his shoulders, tells him to move, adds, “You gotta stop getting banged up on the job,” and guides him onto his back with sure hands, and then—

Then Gil’s hovering over him and that’s so much _better._

“If you hadn’t gotten hurt today…” Gil murmurs, a mixture of concern and desire guiding the circling of his thumbs against Malcolm’s shoulders.

“I—”

Gil’s gaze turns dark. “Shh, listen. If you hadn’t gotten hurt today,” he says, his hold firming and weight shifting to pin Malcolm into the mattress, “Daddy could’ve gotten rough with you.”

“Oh f-fuck.” Malcolm’s eyes flare wide, hips bucking wildly as he strains under the press of hands at his shoulders. “Fuck, Gil, do you like it rough?”

“Isn’t a brat like you always cruising for a spanking from Daddy.”

“Oh my god.” A sound like a whine leaks past Malcolm’s parted lips. Each breath is a struggle, not tight like an anxiety attack, but like there isn’t enough oxygen in the air. His head spins, and he fights against Gil’s unrelenting hold. “Gil, I’m so fucking turned on. I don’t care about my leg, you can still spank me if you want.”

Gil’s brows raise in smug amusement and Malcolm flushes hot. So he’s _that_ kind of top.

He releases his hold on Malcolm and gathers up the hem of Malcolm’s shirt. “I’m not going to spank you, kid.” Knuckles graze along Malcolm’s front as Gil helps him out of the shirt. “Because you said… How did you phrase it?” His hand travels briefly down Malcolm’s side before he catches Malcolm’s arms and pushes them overhead. “You ‘wanted to choke on Daddy’s dick,’ and I think,” he holds up a leather cuff between them, “that if I’m going to go to hell for this, it might as well be to give you what you want.”

Having Gil buckle him back into the restraints intensifies the squirming thrill eating him from the inside out. “You’re not going to hell for this,” Malcolm promises, head turning to watch Gil tighten the straps so they’re almost flush against the headboard. “I know precisely what I’m asking for,” he promises, rattling off his safe word and a few things he likes along with his triggers, even the ones that probably aren’t going to come into play.

Gil slides another pillow under Malcolm’s neck and upper back, and there’s a brief moment when he looks down at Malcolm and his jaw goes tight. Strapped in, cock straining, there’s no ignoring the fast-approaching line that signals where there’s really and truly no going back.

But then he’s swinging his leg over to straddle Malcolm’s chest and that line zips past them into the rearview.

Heat radiates from Gil to pour across Malcolm’s bare skin, and he watches eagerly as Gil strips off his shirt. He keeps it gripped in one fist while he takes hold of Malcolm’s face with the other, fingers digging to meet the hard row of Malcolm’s teeth.

Skin shrinking, face tingling, Malcolm arches desperately at the touch. Each breath can’t hope to fill his lungs. Lightly panting through parted lips, his mind reels with the possibilities: Gil might slip fingers into his mouth again, or spit on him, or slap him across the face before pushing his dick onto Malcolm’s waiting tongue.

Instead, he gets Gil’s plain white undershirt crammed into his mouth. He whines to signal that this isn’t what he’d asked for, but Gil pretends not to understand. A muffled complaint falls on equally deaf ears so he works his jaw to spit the fabric out, tongue dried and coated with a weird taste. “Gil! You— _mmff_.” He squirms as Gil shoves the fabric right back into his mouth, a fresh surge of blood heading straight for his cock as he rides the thrill of being forced to wait.

“Good boys know when to be quiet.” Gil pats Malcolm lightly on the cheek. “You’ll get your taste eventually.”

Sucking in a deep breath through his nose, Malcolm pulls against the restraints. Gil’s shirt muffles his moans as he’s forced to watch Gil rise up to his knees and stroke himself through the front of his pajama bottoms. The thin fabric and the boxers under them hide next to nothing, and Malcolm can make out the shape of Gil’s cock through the soft jersey cotton.

He wants his mouth there. Wants nothing else but for the fabric against his tongue to not be the crumple of Gil’s undershirt, but the irresistible bulge hovering just inches from his face. He fights the restraints harder, yearning to touch, to beg with his hands and with his words. 

_Please,_ he tries to say through the makeshift gag, _please don’t make me wait any longer._

He’s never been this worked up so quickly before, and a frustrated cry dies strangled in the shirt wadded in his mouth when Gil shuffles backwards. It’s not a balm when Gil drops over him to tongue a kiss at the center of his chest.

_Please, Daddy, I want to make you feel good._

If Gil can translate the begging, he’s not persuaded by it. Soft whiskers tickle Malcolm’s skin as lips drag to tease the scatter of hair across his chest. A gust of breath precedes Gil’s tongue and lightning crackles through Malcolm’s body as it slides over the taut, sensitive point of his nipple, the arc of sensation going right to his cock and making it jerk. He squirms under the trap of Gil’s thighs, unable to buck or twist without the scrape along his leg distracting him from the pleasure of Gil’s flicking tongue.

“You like that?” Gil purrs. He slips a hand under Malcolm, fingers spreading wide at the low of his back like when they’d been dancing. “Do you like how Daddy makes you feel?”

Malcolm nods and whimpers, nose flaring on each needful breath. It’s such a lightly teasing sensation, not nearly _enough_ and yet so fucking good at the same time. His fingers curl and flex and he tips his head back as Gil’s mouth descends on him again, toying at his nipple with soft swirling licks and sharp nipping bites. It feels like it goes on forever and when Gil’s mouth drifts across to toy with his other nipple, the stopwatch resets and begins all over again.

Fingers worm into the waist of his shorts, and no amount of whining entices Gil to do _more_. He’s lost trying to twist between the touch flirting at his tailbone and the slick teasing of Gil’s tongue. His whines fade, turn to a weak moan as Gil lifts his head to say, “Daddy loves the way you taste.”

Dizzied, Malcolm tries to breathe more deeply in through his nose. He can’t seem to get enough air as Gil’s mouth travels towards his neck and the fingers at his sacrum inch lower. Malcolm spits the fabric out again, needing a breath and needing for Gil to hear him beg for more.

Gil drops his weight to his elbow and tugs the shirt free of Malcolm’s mouth. “Hey.” With a flick of his wrist, he tosses the shirt aside. “You okay?”

Working up enough spit to answer, Malcolm bobs his head emphatically. “Green light, green fucking light,” he gasps, body shaking uncontrollably under Gil’s weight because now he can _feel_ Gil’s hard cock pressing against the top of his thigh. “Oh my god, Gil. This is—”

“What you really want?” Gil supplies, finger dipping into the cleft of Malcolm’s ass.

“God, yes.” Malcolm loses all his air in a loud exhale, overwhelmed by the one-two punch of lust and pure emotion. Of course Gil can dominate him more thoroughly than any top he’s had the pleasure of scening with. Gil knows him better than anyone. “It’s everything.”

But because he’s _that kind_ of top, Gil’s hand slips away. “Well, too bad kid, ya gotta wait,” he says with a smirk. 

“Fuck!” Malcolm breaks into a giddy, frustrated laugh. He groans miserably and bounces his hips in the strapped to the bed equivalent of stomping his foot. Every inch of his body screams to be touched, from the demanding throb of his cock to the tingle at his throat left by the brief brush of Gil’s beard. “Gil, c’mon. Please. Please fuck me, Daddy.”

Unswayed, Gil sits back on his heels to survey the length of Malcolm’s body. His skin goes tight again under the scrutiny, and a glance down at himself shows that he’s leaked so much pre-come that a small wet spot darkens the front of his pants.

He shakes the cuffs and fucks up into the air. “I don’t want to wait.”

“What a shocker,” Gil deadpans. He gives Malcolm another once over, then reaches to release his wrists. “But you’ve had a long day, haven’t you?” He settles himself against the headboard and shoves his pants down, kicking them away.

Eyes glued to Gil’s cock the moment it’s bared, Malcolm greedily memorizes the shape and length of it. An appreciative, _“Oh, Daddy,”_ falls out of his mouth as he sits upright and brings his hands to rest lightly atop Gil’s thigh. “Can I?”

Gil releases the carabiner from the strap left dangling at the headboard. “Hands behind your back, kid.” He tosses the bit of metal at Malcolm. “Clip in.”

Malcolm catches the carabiner in his cupped hands and does as told. He wavers a bit needing to keep his one leg extended and not having his arms for balance, his core engaging to correct until Gil’s hand braces his elbow to help him stay steady.

“Daddy likes it nice and wet. Can you do that?”

“Fuck yes, I can.” He licks his lips to a shine as proof, and when Gil fists the base of his cock to angle it towards Malcolm, that’s all the invitation Malcolm needs. He starts to pitch forward, but even keeping his abs tight isn’t enough to ensure that he won’t land face-first in such a way that he’s not going to be able to prove to Gil just how good he can be.

Blowing out a soft puff of breath to get the bit of hair fallen into his eyes out of the way, Malcolm swivels around to scoot to the edge of the bed. He stands and catches the hem of his pants with his toes to tug them down and flashes Gil a grin as he shimmies out of them until he’s only in his shorts and the cuffs.

He skirts the bed, saying, “I want to do this right,” wincing a bit as stiffened muscles complain. He lowers himself to the thickly carpeted floor with a hiss, breathing past the hurt of scrapes pulled taut as he kneels. The medical tape plastered all along his thigh tugs against his skin and leg hair, but once he’s resting on his heels, the discomfort fades behind the promise of what’s to come.

Eyes meeting the floor, Malcolm assumes the posture that most doms love to see him in, hands on his thighs, muscles easing to drop his shoulders and leave his body pliant.

Blocking the pain where his body busily tries to heal the abrasions is easy enough when there’s the whisper of Gil sliding out of bed and padding over to him. When a gentle hand tips his face up and a thumb brushes over his mouth to urge it to open.

“Kid, that can’t be comfortable.” Gil shakes his head ruefully. “But if you really want to be down there like this, you just promise that you’ll tell me if you need to stand.”

Malcolm lips at the pad of Gil’s thumb. “I promise.” He delivers a soft lick before looking up, begging with his eyes for something thicker pushed between his lips. “Please feed me your cock, Daddy,” he says, a thrill rippling through him as he begs for it from the floor. It’s different like this. He’s more in his element. Even though being strapped to a bed with a top hovering over him isn’t exactly out of his wheelhouse, here on his knees he’s no longer entirely at Gil’s mercy. Now he’s got a bit of control back, and the chance to really savor things.

He shuffles forward, murmurs, “Please,” and, “I’m so ready,” his fingers twisting at the low of his back as he nuzzles Gil’s bare cock, reveling at the soft heat of it dragging against his cheek. The sweet honey scent of the soap stocked in the shower mingles with the faintly yeasty smell of Gil’s balls. He fills his lungs and lets it saturate him as he mouths at the heavy hang, catching the sac between his lips before dragging a wide, wet lick over delicate skin.

Lavishing attention to them until Gil’s pulse twitches in the hard length of his cock, Malcolm kisses a path back up that twitching shaft, tongue curling to catch its leaking tip.

Belly and tongue quivering at that first taste, a hungry, needy sound escapes him as he tongues the head of Gil’s cock to dripping. Daddy likes it nice and wet, plays in his head like a mantra. Mouth open, tongue out, he lets Gil’s cock ride the flat then sucks up his spit before it drips to the floor.

“How dirty do you like it, Daddy?” he asks, lips shaping each word against burning hot flesh.

The low rumble of a groan isn’t much to go on.

Malcolm wipes the shine from Gil’s cock with his face, spit slicking into his stubble. “This dirty?” Another long lick leaves Gil’s cock dripping, and another rub of his cheek triggers a hitch in Gil’s breath. “Or this?” He pulls back, darting a mischievous glance up as he works up a mouthful to spit directly onto the head of Gil’s cock, mouth open to catch the mess as it slips off the tip. He does it again, and again, then smears the mess of his spit down the side of Gil’s cock with his lips.

He’s rewarded by murmuring encouragement and heavy exhales, and now, the push of fingers into his hair. Voice thick with lust, Malcolm begs for Daddy to feed him again, dropping soft, sucking kisses along Gil’s cock between offering his mouth and his body for Gil to use.

When he’s back to slow, swirling licks around the crown, lips starting to tease at taking it into his mouth properly, Malcolm glances up and an overwhelmingly tender expression meets his gaze. 

The hand in his hair tightens, and he’s prepared for this to be something slow and sweet, but Gil’s grip firms to take a fistful at the roots and leverage Malcolm’s head back until his throat his taut. A giddy rush seizes him, leaves him gasping and grinning as Gil wipes the spit-wet head of his cock over Malcolm’s chin.

“You got Daddy so good and wet. Is this what you want as your reward?” Gil grips Malcolm’s hair so tight he can’t even nod to signal yes. He can only moan and roll his tongue out again to beg for it. “Is this what my boy wants?”

A full-body jolt wracks him, and his hips twitch to fuck the air. He yearns for Gil to call him that again. Over and over. He needs to hear Gil say _my boy_ in that soft growl until it fills the hollow aching space inside him carved there by the Surgeon.

“Gil, yes, please. _Please.”_

“That’s my very good boy,” Gil murmurs as he pushes his cock past Malcolm’s lips.

Malcolm groans, an endless sound that originates somewhere more profound than the mechanics of breath in his lungs and the hum of his vocal chords. It resonates in the very marrow of his bones. In every cell. The sum whole of his body eager for Gil to know how long he’s waited for this very moment.

He wraps his lips around the thick shaft of Gil’s cock, tongue tunneling beneath it as he strains against the hold in his hair. He wants to bury Gil’s cock in the trap of his throat, take it so deep he’s fighting the ripple of his gag reflex. He wants his lips to brush the soft curls of Gil’s pubes and hold there until he worries he might pass out.

But he’s held whining and moaning with hardly more than the head to lick against. “You’re making Daddy feel so good, sweetheart.” Gil watches avidly as he rides the flat of Malcolm’s tongue, lips taut around him. Eventually, Malcolm stops trying to coax Gil to fuck deeper into his mouth and embraces the gratitude of every inch sliding in and out of his lips.

“There we go… that’s it,” Gil says, recognizing the change. “You can have it your way in a bit, but you’re doing so well.”

Malcolm blinks his eyes open, the promise of more ringing sweetly in his ears alongside Gil’s encouragement. He relaxes further, stops trying to swallow the spit still flooding into his mouth, letting it pool on his tongue and leak from the corners of his mouth.

The sound of Gil using his mouth turns obscene as he pushes in deeper and pulls out farther, until nearly the whole length of him is slicked up. Malcolm’s hardly aware of the ache of his own cock, all his focus on the pace that gives Malcolm an idea of how Gil likely fucks: building up a rhythm before he bottoms out and then just slamming deep until he needs a breather.

He’s not going as far as he could, and if Malcolm’s hands were free he’d put them to Gil’s hips to encourage him. Instead, he twists his body, moaning louder and louder whenever Gil’s cock threatens to bump near the back of his throat. _I can take it, Daddy._ And when finally, that sound cuts short along with his breath, he shudders and bucks his hips, lashes fluttering wildly. Gil’s grip in Malcolm’s hair loosens, gives him the chance to pull off if he needs, and when he does, gasping and coughing, face flush and tingling, he takes another big gulp of air and eagerly swallows Gil down again.

Gil’s hand cradles the back of Malcolm’s skull, murmurs, “You’re taking it so good, baby,” his hips a rhythmic swing as he fucks into Malcolm’s mouth.

He’s had dozens upon dozens of men fuck his throat, but it’s never felt this good. Never made him so _grateful_ to be on his knees. He can’t stop moaning around the thick cock sliding into him, slipping with each thrust a little further into a headspace that promises to leave him dizzied and floating. Twisting together behind him, his fingers are full of electricity, neurons buzzing, signals relayed throughout the whole of his body even though the only real touch he’s getting is the press of Gil’s hand and the push of his cock.

With Gil’s silent permission, Malcolm meets the rhythm set for him, head bobbing and lips slowly numbing as they strain to hold tight to his teeth. He’s never had much of a gag reflex, not for anything that isn’t food anyway, but Gil is _thick_ and more than once he has to pull away, coughing and swallowing to regain control. Each time, a blissful smile stretches his mouth wide until it’s full again. It’s everything he’s ever wanted. It’s fucking perfect.

Another break and Malcolm sways, his voice shot when he rasps, “Choke me, Daddy,” between lapping frantically at whatever he can reach. “Choke me,” another desperate lick, “on your fucking,” a wet nuzzling kiss, “gorgeous cock.”

Gil cradles his face, makes him meet his eyes to say it again. It’s so he can be sure, Malcolm realizes dimly, distantly. He’s already a little loopy, and there’s spittle thick and stringing dripping down his chin. He can’t wipe it away, because… because his hands are clipped behind him. Where Daddy wants them.

He sucks his lip clean and grins. “Please come in my mouth, Daddy.”

“Not yet, baby,” Gil tells him. His cock rubs against Malcolm’s chin, smears that spit right back into his skin.

Malcolm dips his head to chase it and catch it between his lips again, to work his tongue eagerly at the ridge until it swells beautifully in his mouth. He works Gil’s cock expertly, high on the chance to prove to the man he’s loved for so long that he can service him for hours if desired. He swallows Gil deep, sound cut off again, his face grinding to take Gil all the way to the hilt and hold there for a long, blissful second.

“Breathe in, sweetheart,” he hears Gil tell him, pushing him off and away. “A big deep breath for Daddy.”

With a gasp and a nod, Malcolm sucks in a full breath and then another, drawing the air into the space at his belly and letting it whoosh out of him like he does for his yoga practice.

“One more and then Daddy’s going to fuck your face again, okay?”

Trying to speak and do as he’s told all at once, his “Yes” turns into a whine on an inhale. He manages to answer and take the breath as told, and then Gil is gripping his hair again and sliding back into his mouth like his cock belongs there.

Gil fucks his face. Really and truly fucks him. No quarter and no pause, seating himself into the tunnel of Malcolm’s throat and holding there over and over until he’s choking and gagging, but Gil’s always careful to give him the space to breathe. To nod or moan or beg with a hoarse cry to keep going.

Dizzied from the pounding, lips thick and bruised and like he’s serviced a whole room full of people, Malcolm prepares for another thrust into his slack mouth when he realizes Gil isn’t merely giving him a break, but hooking hands under his arms to haul him to his feet.

“C’mon, kid, up. _Up up up._ ”

He yelps as his left leg uncurls, muscles stiffened up and twice as painful as before he’d gone down to kneeling. The hurt cuts through the haze a bit to bring his world slightly more into focus. He leans heavily on Gil.

“I know, kid,” Gil murmurs in a soothing tone. He guides Malcolm towards the bed. “You were down there a little too long, but I’ve got you. Come on, one foot and then the next.”

Gil reaches around him to unclip the cuffs, dropping the carabiner onto the bedside table and leaning down to flick open the drawer. A bit of embarrassment stirs in Malcolm’s belly as Gil pulls out a bottle and a small hand towel from an array of lube and insertables. He’d never thought to check to see if the contents of his own bedside drawers had been transplanted here the same way his wardrobe had. Just when, exactly, had Gil first opened that drawer?

As Gil drops to the bed and props himself against the headboard, he sizes Malcolm up. “You want this?”

Malcolm rolls his eyes dramatically. How could he not? “Of course I do. More than anything.”

“Daddy could still come in your mouth.”

“Gil, I could watch you come into a tissue and this would still be the hottest fucking night of my life.”

He grins drunkenly as Gil catches his arm with a quiet, “Okay, smartass,” and tugs him to the bed. “Get your good leg up and over, kid, let the other one dangle to the floor so it doesn’t get all stiff again.”

Malcolm does as told, straddling Gil’s thighs, his right knee sinking into the plush softness of the mattress and the toes of his other foot finding a bit of purchase on the floor. Leaning forward eagerly, he rubs his palms over Gil’s hips. “I can’t wait for Daddy to fuck me,” he says, staring as Gil slicks his fat cock up.

“Can you open yourself for me?” Gil holds the bottle up between them. “Daddy doesn’t want to hurt you. Not like this.”

A hard rush of lust sends Malcolm floating again, logic centers not shut down so far that he can’t read the implication there. “You won’t hurt me,” he promises, taking the lube from Gil and reaching back to ready himself. Fingers slipping slick over his hole, he bites his lip. This would be so much better if he were on his back with his legs up, Gil able to see as he pushes his fingers inside himself. But just because he can’t see— “Do you want to feel?”

With a few fingers at the base of his cock, Gil aims it straight up. “I’m going to kid, soon as you’re ready for this.”

“Fuck.”

Malcolm’s eyes go heavy-lidded as he fucks himself open. He tosses the bottle aside when he’s slicked and ready, wiping his fingers on the towel Gil passes to him as he tips forward, a loud, “Oh god!” startled out of him when Gil grabs his hips to drag him straight into Daddy’s lap.

Gil’s arms curl around him to take handfuls of his ass. “You sure that’s enough?” A hard squeeze spreads Malcolm’s cheeks wide and the tip of one finger slips near the heat of his rim.

Stars burst in his vision, livewire pleasure making his own cock bounce wildly as he promises, “More than enough,” and lowers himself down. A slight twitch of his hips nudges Gil’s cock to the right angle for him to sink right down on top of it. That first inch breaches him easily, hits the resistance that triggers a momentary ache before he engages his muscles, core tightening as the rest of him relaxes. He splays his palms on Gil’s chest as he sinks down further, Gil’s cock piercing him in a slow slide.

Eyes thinning to slivers, Malcolm soaks in the dreamy delight of seeing Gil’s mouth drop open on a whispered curse. He’d seen from his knees what raw pleasure looks like on Gil’s face, but this, the join of their bodies, writes a whole new story between the twist of his brows. Malcolm doesn’t need to pause to adjust, doesn’t need to do anything but let their bodies fall together.

When his ass is tucked against the warmth of Gil’s thighs, he remembers to breathe.

“Fuck, kid,” Gil says, reverent. His eyes reopen slowly, hands traveling up the curve of Malcolm’s back like he’s greedy for the touch of him. Thick as he is, Gil had probably expected this to be more difficult, but if there’s one thing Malcolm knows he’s good at besides profiling, it’s being an excellent bottom. Even when he’s not getting dicked on the regular, he still keeps in practice at home with those bedside toys—or, as he had this week, with the curl of his fingers inside himself as he jerks off.

Letting himself drift a bit again now that he’s done his part, Malcolm blinks lazily. “Is it good, Daddy?”

He lists forward and Gil carefully arranges his arms, helping Malcolm loop them around his neck. “So good, kid. It’s so good,” Gil tells him, and then he’s clinging to the span of those broad shoulders. He breathes a soft laugh full of blissful wonder when Gil’s face burrows against his neck, his body quivering at the brush of whiskers against sensitive skin. “ _You’re_ so good.”

Malcolm moves in time to the slow push of Gil rocking up into him. “‘s perfect, Gil,” he tips his head as Gil’s mouth travels along his throat, “You’re perfect.” All the blood in his body has transformed to something honey warm and golden, and he luxuriates in how much skin presses against his. Revels in the steady warmth of Gil’s chest and belly, his solid thighs, and his strong, capable hands. “I don’t want this to ever end.”

A faint whisper of, “Me either, kid,” could be his own wishful thinking. There are other whispers after all, trying to surface in the core of him, but none of them are the dark, terrifying sort that sometimes haunt him. These are less sly, less insidious, a ghostly swirl beneath the pleasure trying to make him question if this is real and, if it is, if everything is going to be okay when they have to leave all of this behind.

It’s real, Malcolm tells himself, clinging to Gil. The dull hurt along his side keeps him grounded in that truth, but as for tomorrow—

“I love you,” Malcolm confesses. He said it before, earlier, but now it’s a broken-glass tumble from his lips. He swallows the sob that tries to follow, packs it down with all that longing caged in his bones. Before it can shred him from the inside out, he turns his head to kiss Gil, to taste him and let the pleasure of the moment chase everything else away.

“I love you so fucking much, Gil,” he whispers before pushing his tongue into Gil’s mouth with renewed desperation. “So much.”

Malcolm licks against Gil’s tongue, bites at his lip and digs furrows into his shoulders until Gil kisses him back just as hard, practically growling into his mouth. Those shadowy doubts disperse, fleeing in the wake of Gil’s hungry kiss and the arms enfolding around him to hold him closer still. He shivers blissfully as Gil takes over the kiss, his tongue thrusting deep into Malcolm’s mouth for him to lick against and suck.

He works his hips, trying to take Gil even deeper inside him, and eventually, Gil’s hand slides down to gather up his wounded leg. The fresh hurt springing to life beneath the bandages pales in comparison to the emotion brimming inside him and he moves easily at Gil’s guiding touch; knowing what Gil wants and so very ready to give it.

“Go,” he says, and Gil rolls him to his back.

As Gil resettles between the wide sprawl of his legs, he licks his teeth and tilts his hips in anticipation. “Fuck me hard, Daddy,” he pleads, sliding a hand along his belly to find his cock as Gil gazes down at him. A moan builds in Malcolm’s throat as Gil sinks right back in.

Gil drops to his elbows and dips his head to watch Malcolm slowly stroking himself. “God, Malcolm,” he murmurs, lips closing to seal on something left unspoken. 

Sometimes Malcolm’s partners like to say he’s beautiful or pretty, or, if it’s been a certain kind of night, a needy slut or a naughty little brat. Whatever Gil holds back, it’s more than some platitude meant solely to get him hot.

“Gil?”

“You know,” he slips a hand under Malcolm again to cradle him, “you’ve got a sharper mind than pretty much any person I’ve ever known, kid. So for you to decide you want me of all people. It boggles the mind.”

Malcolm searches Gil’s eyes to find a mirror of his own fears there. It’s his turn to frame Gil’s face between his hands, palms smoothing away the tension pulling Gil’s jaw taut. He slips his fingers down to comb through the whiskers on Gil’s chin, smiling as he loops his arms around Gil’s neck again to hold onto him. “How could I not want you?”

Gil shakes his head in self-deprecation, chuckling softly. “I don’t get it, but I promise you, I’m going to make this good for you.”

“You already have. You have no idea how much you have,” Malcolm assures him, “I love the way you feel in me, Gil.” He writhes a bit against the fullness stretching him. “I love it so much.”

Gil’s forehead meets his, a tender, “I love it too, sweetheart,” washing across his cheek. A squeeze, and then the hand beneath him slides up his spine to curl under his shoulder for leverage and Gil begins, finally, to move.

He finds his rhythm quickly, and with one hard thrust Malcolm arches off the bed with a gasp. The angle here hits him perfectly, and he’d been right about the way Gil fucks. It’s a build up: each plunge of his cock hitting deeper, harder, until he’s grinding his hips flush against Malcolm and pulling out almost all the way. Again and again, the steady build steals Malcolm’s breath until he’s left teetering on a precipice waiting for the cycle to start over.

But this time Gil curls close and kisses him, lips soft and tongue softer. “You like it like this, baby?” he asks.

He hums a yes into Gil’s mouth. “Gil, _Daddy,_ it’s so, so good…”

Lips and breath shivering together, he can feel the way Gil reacts to it this time, the undeniable hitch of lust as Malcolm calls him that.

“I love your cock, Daddy,” he murmurs. A surge this time in the cock seated inside him. The rush of delighted pleasure makes him squirm, body clenching around the girth of Gil’s cock. “I love it inside me,” he pants out between kisses. “Filling me up.” He tips his head back to suck in a deep lungful of air and curves to make Gil press against him _there_. He’s not focused on the pleasure at his dick but it twitches between them and oh, when Gil makes him come it’s going to be so fucking good. “Please give it to me hard, Daddy. I’m so close. So close.”

Recognizing that means Malcolm won’t need a hand on him jolts Gil into motion again. Malcolm smiles to himself. Of course. Natural top mixed with the sort of personality that has him cruising around Manhattan in a Le Mans and this is how it manifests: he takes pleasure and pride in getting someone off on his dick alone.

It’s a lot of machismo bullshit and orgasms aren’t everything, but Malcolm’s not complaining, not when it’s driving Gil to slam into him. Not every older man he’s fucked has had stamina, but Gil has it in spades. Mouth open and ankles hooking desperately around Gil’s waist, Malcolm holds on for the ride. A moan builds in his chest, pours free and quavers with the rhythm of hips slapping heavily against him. The sheets stick to him, sweat gathering at the low of his back and in the space where their bodies meet. It’s not long before his moaning turns to mindless begging and the grasp of his hands at Gil’s shoulders slips down to clutch at Gil’s biceps.

“That’s it, kid.” Gil lifts himself up onto his wrists, devouring the needy expression rippling Malcolm’s brow. “Come for Daddy."

He’s trying. He’s almost there. Almost. His hands fall to the bedding and gather it in fistfuls, his hips bucking up to meet Gil’s cock.

“Come on my dick, baby,” Gil says, knees going wide, “show me just how much,” he slams Malcolm with a staccato burst, “my boy loves it.”

A flurry of sparks fly up Malcolm’s spine until the whole of his face tingles, until the pins and needles flood into his extremities and he twists. He cries out, ripples of pleasure overtaking him as his cock jerks, come striping his chest in hot streaks.

“F-fuck, Daddy,” Malcolm moans and Gil’s answering groan turns into a gritty exhale. He shudders when Gil’s hand curves against his flank and he only goes harder, watching through half-lidded eyes as Gil chases his own release.

It’s scorchingly hot. His teeth close on his lip as Gil pounds into him, and he fixes into his memory the shape of Gil’s brows, of his mouth… studies lovingly the tension building at his jaw before his hips stutter and stall.

“Yes,” Malcolm breathes, squeezing around the hard throb of Gil coming inside him. “God yes…”

Gil gives him a few more long, perfect thrusts with a slow grind at the peak that Malcolm blissfully appreciates even if he isn’t built the way Gil’s trained to fuck. “Thank you, Daddy,” he says, eyes stinging. Wetness gathers at his lashes to slip warm down his face, the spill just as cathartic.

“Good?” Near breathless, Gil drops back to one elbow to reach up and smooth the hair away from Malcolm’s brow.

He nods and spreads a smile even as more tears leak from the corners of his eyes. “Perfect.” Ankles unhooking, his legs fall wide. He stretches his arms lazily overhead, fingers flexing lightly until they stop feeling kitten-weak.

When their breathing evens out, Gil slips out of him. “Don’t move.” He gives Malcolm a light pat on the leg. “Daddy’s going to be back in a minute, okay?”

“Okay.”

Gil disappears down the hall and returns a few minutes later with a steaming bowl and a tea towel thrown over his shoulder. Malcolm’s smile broadens as Gil sets the bowl beside the bed, and he tracks the motion as Gil dips the towel in and wrings it.

“You have _definitely_ topped before,” Malcolm observes, basking in the attention as Gil cleans him up with soft swipes of the towel. Each pass starts off wonderfully warm before a kiss of cool air meets damp skin.

“Oh, I’ve been around the block once or twice in my lifetime,” Gil says. He wipes down Malcolm’s face, his neck, takes care to towel off each finger in turn and then press a kiss to the center of Malcolm’s palm. “You need anything special?”

Malcolm shakes his head, and Gil slides back into bed beside him. He gathers Malcolm close and tenderly brushes the last clinging tears from Malcolm’s lashes with his thumb.

Malcolm nestles against Gil’s chest, eyes and limbs turning heavy. God, he loves the way Gil smells. A shiver ripples through him as the sweat on his back starts to cool and he murmurs in contentment as Gil rubs his arm to warm him. “I needed this after.”

“Maybe now you’ll sleep through the night, hm?”

When the shivering doesn’t quite stop, Gil shifts again, urging Malcolm to get under the covers with him. He commands the lights off and holds Malcolm tight, pressing a kiss to the top of Malcolm’s head and resting his mouth there, breath filtering warm through Malcolm’s hair.

“Breakfast in the morning?” Gil asks. “One last time?”

“I’d love that,” Malcolm whispers, and bites hard at the inside of his cheek as a familiar yearning ache returns to his chest.

* * *

Malcolm jerks awake from a dream that leaves behind a shadowy unease as his eyes snap open. Disoriented, he catalogs his surroundings, noticing first that he’s sprawled on his belly, then, as he flips himself to his back, that there’s no tether leading to the cuffs on his wrists. There’s also a dull hurt along his left side and the vague pleasurable ache from a hard fuck. Right. Yesterday in the park… and _last night_.

He’s alone in bed. The light filtering through the shades is sharp, mid-morning light, just around the time Gil would normally be leaving for work. Malcolm strips the cuffs off his wrists, a gnawing fear in his gut that Gil may have thought letting him sleep would be preferable to waking him for breakfast. He glances at the door, wondering if he ought to go check even before brushing his teeth. The air carries no hint of bacon frying in the pan or the sweet vinegary smell of ketchup. There’s not even a whiff of coffee to lure him.

What if Gil is already gone and he’s alone here?

Malcolm balls his hand into a fist as he heads to the bathroom. Still stiff, his leg complains at each step, but he isn’t quite limping like he was last night. A few bruises have come to life on his arm, too, where he’d struck the path taking down the suspect. He rolls his shoulder to loosen the joint, focusing on successfully catching the killer and any other stray thought that enters his mind to avoid the possibility that he hadn’t even been able to say goodbye to Gil.

It wouldn’t have been with a kiss on the cheek anyway, would it? He washes his face and aggressively dries it, muffling a frustrated shout into the towel as he can’t stop his thoughts from catastrophizing.

“You don’t know what would’ve happened,” he reminds his reflection. “And you don’t know what _could_ happen. The future isn’t written yet and you can’t rewrite the past.”

Counting through a few deep breaths, Malcolm leaves the towel crumpled at the sink and goes to pull on some clothes. He’s thrusting his arms into a sweater when a shadow appears at the door to the wardrobe. He freezes.

“Hey.” Gil raises a hand as he recognizes he’s startled Malcolm. “Just came to check on you. Getting close to the time you need to take your meds, isn’t it?”

“You’re still here.”

“Email and paperwork can wait and we haven’t caught a new case yet this morning.” Gil knocks on the wood of the jamb for the superstition. “If you still want breakfast, I’ve got pancakes waiting to go.”

“That sounds amazing.”

“I’ll get another pot of coffee going.”

Breakfast is not so much awkward as it is somber. Neither of them talk much, although as Malcolm picks at his pancakes he keeps trying to start up conversation, jumping abruptly from topic to topic without much rhyme nor reason. It makes him sound a bit like Edrisa, really.

Gil at least doesn’t seem annoyed by it. He seems more annoyed by Malcolm eating his pancakes from the center out.

“It makes a hole for the syrup,” Malcolm explains in another non sequitur.

Gil shoves his near-empty plate aside with more force than necessary. “You want to talk about this like adults?” 

Hunched over what is increasingly just a pool of syrup, Malcolm glances up with a leery twist to his mouth. “Honestly?”

“We don’t have to. We can pretend it never happened.”

Malcom winces and sucks the tines of his fork clean. “I don’t want that, either.” Sighing, he places the fork down beside his plate. He was only going to be able to manage another few bites anyway, something Gil had probably noticed.

“So, Bright, tell me: What do you want?” Gil fixes him with a look that ends up simultaneously making the heat rise on the back of Malcolm’s neck _and_ his face go pale. Last night that question had been very different. His body wrestles with conflicting signals and his thoughts don’t fare much better.

He gathers his composure and formulates a proper response. “I want this,” he says simply, looking around at the little slice of domesticity. “Waking up to have breakfast with you, or having you cook me dinner—” Dipping his head, Malcolm breathes out a quiet laugh. “That makes it sound like all I care about is the food—which given my typical lack of enthusiasm for meals is admittedly a powerful motivator. But what I really mean is this form of casual intimacy.” 

“I wasn’t kidding when I said I’d been in love with you for as long as I can remember. This has been my fantasy life come true,” he goes on. A brief pause, then he rolls his eyes as he adds, “Up to and including the mind-blowing sex. Oh my god, the sex was amazing. It’s, um, been a while since I’ve felt that good.”

Gil twists his coffee mug between his fingers.

Nervousness creeps in to fill the silence crowding around them. “And you, Gil? What do you want?”

“The truth is, kid—and you’re not going to like it—is that I don’t know.”

“I see.” Malcolm carefully masks his disappointment. ‘Don’t know’ is a far cry from _’not that’_ or _’not you’_ , and if anything, he immediately starts to wonder what it is that’s causing Gil uncertainty.

The way Gil’s hands are staying on his mug could be to tamp down the urge to reach across the table to him, and the—

Gil’s firm, “Stop,” snaps Malcolm out of trying to profile him.

“Sorry.”

“I’ll be clear, I’m not saying no, but all of this is just that: a fantasy life,” Gil tells him, voice raising as he waves a hand at the house and the table and the space between them. “Maybe it’d be like this if we were a couple. Maybe not. There’s a lot for me to consider. You know how important my job is to me kid, and what if it comes out that I’ve started dating a consultant on the payroll who’s half my age?”

“Technically I’m not that young and I’m not on the payroll since I waive any fees, but I…” Malcolm slows down his objection before it comes across as dismissive of Gil’s feelings, “… see what you are saying.”

“You’re not just any consultant half my age. It’s no secret who you are anymore, and it doesn’t matter if you’re a grown man, people are going to talk.”

Malcolm wants to say _so, let them_ with his whole chest, but he’s dealt with whispers and snide remarks more than half his life and he wouldn’t wish that on anyone, least of all Gil. “So then, what are you saying? You want some time to think about it?”

Palms pressing flat to the table, Gil sits back, his gaze skipping briefly to the window. Before he can reply, Malcolm holds up a hand and says: “Wait, you said ‘if it comes out that I’ve started dating a consultant,’ so you’re not really deciding whether or not we have some sort of relationship, you’ve already gotten past that. You’re trying to figure out how to spin it.”

“Bright.” Now he sounds annoyed, but in the way that doesn’t have any bite to it.

“Dating is good. I like dating! … I think.” Truthfully, Malcolm hasn’t been on a single decent date in five years, and he says as much, but—

Gil interrupts his train of thought with the soft huff of a laugh, his resigned, “Okay, so you got me,” followed by the clatter of stacking plates. “We give this a shot and start there. Getting to know how we interact when it isn’t all about a case or our shared history is going to be a big part of figuring out whether or not this is meant to be anything long term.”

The giddy swell in Malcolm’s chest comes to life on his face, mouth stretching into a smile even as Gil levels him with a warning gaze.

“We know we can spend a few days together and you can deal with my snoring, and we’re uh, compatible in the bedroom, but there’s a lot we haven’t even touched on.”

“You also know I’m not a bad dancer and a half-decent sous chef.”

“We take it slow, kid,” Gil says solemnly, the tip of his head indicating that he expects an equally serious response.

“Slow,” Malcolm grudgingly agrees. He manages to last an entire ten seconds before tipping forward, toes bouncing under the table as he asks when their first date might hypothetically begin.

Gil gathers up the plates and looks prepared to ignore the question, but then he fixes Malcolm with a wry look and says, “As soon as I figure out how to break the news to your mother without her ending up with a charge for assaulting a police officer or first degree murder.”


	6. Epilogue

_Six weeks and two and a half dates later:_

An officer meets Malcolm outside the crime scene and escorts him in. It’s a high-rise apartment, views not dissimilar to the one from the San Remo, but he doesn’t have time to reminisce or even to say hello to Dani; spotting him enter, Gil peels away from talking to a patrol officer to clap Malcolm on the back and steer him towards the room with the body.

“Come take a look at this.”

Dani trails behind them. He can feel her attention on him. Since she’d uncovered the truth about his feelings for Gil—and he’d let spill enough implication about his feelings for her—things haven’t precisely been strained, but there’s been an extra layer of scrutiny in the way they interact. She definitely knows _something_ happened between him and Gil on that last night of their ‘marriage,’ but so far, he’s pretty sure she hasn’t figured out what.

Wondering just how much longer it’ll be until she figures out he’s dating her boss swiftly takes a back seat to the scene unfolding before him. A fascinated, _“Oh,”_ escaping him as he approaches the kneeling corpse.

“Victim is Reginald Forrester, thirty-seven, investment banker.” Propping his hands on his hips, Gil takes up a post on the other side of the body. “Last seen at a banquet on Friday the twenty-second. Building was doing a safety check of all apartments on this floor due to some faulty wiring in another unit and found him like this.”

“Guy was in the papers a lot recently,” JT chimes in. “He was on the list of _40 under 40 most eligible bachelors_ that came out last month.” He pauses sifting through a stack of paperwork. “What? Tally loves that stuff.”

Dani slants a look Malcolm’s way. “Bright, were you on that list?”

He glances up from examining the positioning of the body: bare to the waist, kimono sleeves tucked under the knees. “Actually… Although according to Ainsley it wasn’t exactly favorable.”

“Honorable mention!” Edrisa supplies helpfully while measuring the cut sliced across the victim’s belly. “It said: _‘The heir to the Milton fortune is out there somewhere, ladies, and rumors are he’s a looker. But if you want to bag Malcolm Whitly you have to accept his baggage: a serial killer for a father.’_ ” She looks up abruptly at Malcolm and then the detectives before adding: “There wasn’t a photo.”

Thank goodness for small mercies, Malcolm thinks, acknowledging Edrisa with a slight nod before continuing to assess the scene.

“With the art around this place, the sake and the kimono, our victim clearly had a near-fetishistic interest in samurai culture. Everything about this smacks of ritual suicide, and,” he points to the spray of red, “the blood pattern suggests the wounds were self-inflicted.” His attention moves to the evidence bag dangling from Dani’s fingertips. “Is that a suicide note?”

She nods and reads aloud: “I gave her everything. Please forgive me.” Flipping the note over, Dani pulls a face. “Guy wrote it on an envelope for The 51st Street Care Project.”

“Hey that’s the uh, community center he raised like three million for a few months ago. It was a bachelor auction at the Rainbow Room and he was the big fish.” JT taps a stack of envelopes against his open palm as he recalls the details. “No one else brought in more than a couple hundred thousand.”

Rising back to standing, Malcolm slings his hands into his pockets. “Well, I don’t really see anything to suggest this is anything other than a suicide.” A little disappointed that there isn’t a juicy murder to keep him occupied, he shrugs. “Could be Mr. Forrester simply made some catastrophic financial decisions and thought this was a way out.”

“Well, here’s the twist, Bright,” Gil says smugly, a twinkle in his eye like a cat offering a gruesome little present. “We didn’t bag a sword. So someone else has been here.”

Now _that’s_ interesting. A half-dozen scenarios immediately pop into Malcolm’s head, and here he’d been thinking Gil was just trying to give him something to distract him from trying to rush their relationship along.

Gil nods at the body. “So, Bright, are you in?”

A new case to solve that promises more than just a few scattershot hours of his time? “Oh, I am so in.”

Dani wordlessly passes Malcolm the evidence bag with the note and pairs it with a sidelong look at Gil. “He might not be your sugar bottom anymore, but you can always count on your boy, huh, Boss?”

“Since you’re all working the case, in actuality I’m at everyone’s disposal equally,” Malcolm responds absently as he studies the envelope. “Gil just signs the paperwork.”

With maybe a little more enthusiasm than is necessary, Edrisa’s cheery, “So really Malcolm is everyone’s boy!” echoes in the room. One of the uniforms standing by quietly clears her throat.

Malcolm presses his lips together. He ought to have seen that coming. He can’t stop the pink from hitting his ears, or the reminder that he’s considered the uh, erotic version of that very scenario more than once, so he shrugs and glances at the detectives and Edrisa in turn. “Nomenclature aside, rest assured that each of you can always count on me,” he offers sincerely, and stretches an arm out to pass the evidence bag back to Dani. At her side, Gil’s expression bears silent approval.

Reassured and ready to get started, Malcolm claps his hands together and grins. “So, team, what do you say we solve ourselves a new case!”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! I intend for this to be a series so I can work Malcolm into a great big polycule with the whole team, so with that in mind:
> 
> Read more of my [Prodigal Son fics](https://archiveofourown.org/works?utf8=%E2%9C%93&commit=Sort+and+Filter&work_search%5Bother_tag_names%5D=Prodigal+Son+%28TV+2019%29&user_id=ponderosa121), or talk to me about this twink getting wrecked on Twitter [@ponderosa121](https://twitter.com/ponderosa121) or on Discord in [Prodigal Son Trash](https://discord.gg/fQaRgBD) an 18+ all-ships server which I help moderate.


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